Megan pressed her lips together. The guy with the ratty sneakers and leather jacket was a pediatrician? He must have gotten his diploma from the Acme School of Medical Make – Believe. The man was clearly loony. “He should take better care of his rabbit.”

“Dr. Hunter’s a little disorganized,” Martha said. “He’s not all settled in yet.”

Betsy petted the rabbit. “Don’t you think it looks like Dr. Hunter? They both have such big brown eyes.”

Megan nodded. “Everyone seems to know Dr. Hunter.”

“He’s taken over old Dr. Boyer’s practice. Dr. Boyer retired last month and moved to Florida,” Martha said, smoothing out the wrinkles in her apron. “My daughter took her little Larissa to Dr. Hunter last week, and she said he was wonderful.”

“Anyone know where this wonderful person lives?” Megan asked, shifting the weight of the rabbit to her hip.

“Nicholson Street,” Betsy said. “I returned his rabbit two days ago. He’s living in the little white cottage across from the cabinetmaker.”

Megan set her chin at a determined angle and marched off to do battle with Patrick Hunter. She didn’t care if he was Pediatrician of the Month; he had no business fathering a rabbit if he didn’t intend to take care of it. Rabbits weren’t exactly brilliant. This one probably had a brain the size of a walnut. What were its chances against hordes of tourists and overzealous gardeners? Remember the tragedy of Peter Rabbit’s father?

“Don’t worry,” she told the bunny, “that’s not going to happen to you. I’m going to give that Patrick Hunter a piece of my mind.”

By the time she reached the Hunter cottage Megan was sweating profusely and had resorted to bundling the enormous rabbit in her cape and slinging it over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Lord, she thought, what did he feed this thing, rocks? She stopped at Hunter’s front stoop to catch her breath and to reassemble herself and the rabbit into a more dignified appearance.