| OCR Text |
Show 21 But Boaz was not ready. He had not been able to find the right kind of needle for the syringe. He had left a note for Maia, saying he'd gone over to the surgery lab to get a new needle. He might not be back until after lunch: she should wait. So Maia was alone in the laboratory, with Mustard and Theresa and Pablo. She opened the drawer of her desk, and took out her sandwich. Ham sandwich, made from ham she had baked for someone, her boyfriend perhaps, or her father, or just herself. She folded out the square of waxed paper, opened the sandwich. Three slices of ham. Three heavy slices of thick, old ham, mottled with sinews that seemed to shimmer green. She wasn't hungry. Maybe the ham was spoiled, ham should not look green; maybe the dark yellow mayonnaise was spoiled too. It would make her sick; no, she would not eat the ham, she would give it to the dogs; it would make them sick too, it would make no difference. Funny, she wasn't hungry, not at all. She was suddenly.aware of a dog's head in her lap. It was Pablo, nuzzling in between her knees, attracted by the sandwich. He was not an affectionate dog, but now he nuzzled up, his long flat head in her lap, his limp ears falling loosely over her knees. His smell surrounded her, the thick, sour smell of unclean animal. His eyes stared at hers, as if to plead for the sandwich, and her own eyes fixed on the pedestal in his forehead. Her hand moved up through the dirty fur to stroke the back of his head, but her eyes remained on the pedestal: a little cap as big around as a dime, protruding almost an inch from his skull. The skin had been slit lengthwise along his |
