That man was Harold Briggs, the owner of the store, a fixture in the neighborhood who liked to talk about hard work and discipline while hiding behind rules he barely understood, and to him, Rowan was not a medical device, not a trained service animal wearing a clearly marked vest, not a living reason Elena was still alive at all, but simply an obstacle, a problem to be removed with force.
Rowan lunged.
Not to attack, not out of aggression, but to shield.
And Harold Briggs kicked him anyway.
The blow landed hard against Rowan’s ribs, sending the dog skidding across the floor, his body slamming into a display of canned soup, metal clattering like gunfire as several customers screamed and stepped back, phones suddenly raised, shock turning into something sharper.
“Stop!” someone shouted.
Another voice, deeper, steadier, cut through the chaos. “Don’t touch her.”
A man in a faded jacket pushed forward, kneeling beside Elena with practiced urgency, two fingers pressed against her wrist while his other hand reached into his pocket, and when he looked up at Briggs, his eyes burned with a fury that had nothing to do with temper and everything to do with training.
“She’s hypoglycemic,” he said. “And that dog you kicked is the reason she’s not dead yet.”
The word hung in the air.
