Hypoglycemic.
Not drunk. Not unstable. Not irresponsible.
Sick.
The man introduced himself quickly, almost as an afterthought. Daniel Reyes, off-duty paramedic, twenty years in emergency response, and without waiting for permission, he squeezed glucose gel between Elena’s lips, rubbing her throat gently to trigger a swallow.
Rowan, trembling and whimpering, dragged himself back toward her, ignoring the pain that radiated through his side, his nose pressed desperately against her cheek, his tail thumping weakly as though movement alone could keep her tethered to the world.
Briggs stepped back then, color draining from his face, but pride held him upright.
“I didn’t know,” he muttered, though the vest was visible, though the witnesses were many, though ignorance no longer carried the weight it once did.
Elena woke slowly, reality returning in fragments, the ceiling swimming above her, the smell of disinfectant sharp in her nose, Rowan’s familiar warmth grounding her when nothing else did, and when she finally focused her eyes, the first thing she saw was her dog lying unnaturally still, his breathing shallow, his body tense with pain.
“Rowan,” she croaked, terror cutting through the lingering weakness.
Daniel stopped her from sitting up too fast, his voice calm but urgent. “He’s alive. But he needs a vet. Now.”
