The pop was deafening in the small room. The suspect went down, the gun clattering on the hardwood. But Max… Max didn’t get up. He didn’t yelp. He just… collapsed. A small, dark patch was already spreading on his side.
The rest was a blur. Backup. Cuffs. Paramedics. But all I could hear was the high-pitched, agonizing sound Max was making as I carried him to the cruiser. I drove faster that night, lights and sirens blazing, than I ever have for a human.Sign up to get updates on the latest chapters, sequels, and exclusive content.At the 24-hour veterinary hospital, Dr. Aris looked grim.
“He’s stable, Ryan. But the bullet fragmented,” she said, pulling off her surgical mask. “It hit the spleen and nicked an artery. He needs highly specialized surgery. We’re talking vascular grafts, spleen removal… it’s complex.”
“Do it,” I said, my voice cracking. “Whatever it takes.”
She hesitated, and my stomach turned to ice. “Ryan, the department’s insurance covers basic trauma… but this is specialty work. The estimate is… it’s north of ten thousand.”
Ten thousand dollars. I didn’t have it. The department’s discretionary fund was dry. Rules were rules. A K9 is technically “department property,” and there’s a limit to what they’ll pay to repair “property.”
I spent the next two days in a daze. I’d visit Max, staring at him through the glass of the ICU, tubes running from his powerful body. He’d manage a single thump of his tail. I’d sit in my cruiser, the silence from the empty K9 cage in the back screaming at me. He had 72 hours.
On the third day, I stopped for coffee at “The Daily Grind,” a little local spot I’d visit on patrol. I must have looked like hell.
“Rough shift, Officer?” asked Sarah, the owner. She was a single mom who was always polite, but distant. One of the ones who, I always felt, didn’t much care for the uniform.
I just nodded, unable to speak. “My partner… he’s in a bad way.”
