George sweating profusely
Beads of sweat rolled down George’s forehead as he stepped back. “Martha, I don’t think it’s safe to touch it,” he insisted, wiping his face with a shaky hand. His fear was written all over him, but Martha wasn’t having it. Her eyes burned with disbelief. “So we’re just going to let it escape?” she snapped.
George shook his head, trying to remain calm. “We need a specialist—someone who’s trained for this kind of thing,” he said, his eyes still glued to the glass. But Martha had had enough. “You’re the vet, George!” she yelled, the sound of her voice bouncing off the kitchen walls. “Start acting like it!”
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