“Sir, stay with me,” I murmured, though I wasn’t sure he could hear.
Valor lowered his massive head against Walt’s cheek and let out a softer whimper, the kind that comes from deep in the chest, and I swear Walt’s eyelids flickered at the sound.
I began chest compressions, counting under my breath, sweat forming at my temples despite the cold supermarket air, and somewhere behind me I heard Curtis arguing with someone, his voice defensive and shrill, but I blocked it out, focusing on rhythm, pressure, breath, praying the ambulance would arrive before irreversible damage set in.
Four minutes later, sirens wailed outside.
Paramedics rushed in, assessed the scene in seconds, and when they saw the vest, the tablets, the position of the dog, their expressions shifted from alarm to understanding.
“Service animal,” one of them muttered. “He’s doing his job.”
They loaded Walt onto the stretcher, and Valor did not need to be instructed; he leapt up gracefully beside him, tucking his body against Walt’s side as if anchoring him to the world.
No one tried to remove him.
Curtis stood off to the side, pale now, mop handle still clutched in his hand like a relic of poor judgment, and as the stretcher rolled past, Valor turned his head slightly, not with aggression but with something far more cutting—disappointment.
I thought that would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
