“Bring her in. I’ll be here.”
I carried Daisy to my truck. She lay in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on me. I retrieved my bike later.
Dr. Amy greeted us at the clinic. Her face fell.
“Bear, this is advanced. Even removing the tumor won’t guarantee anything.”
“Do it anyway.”
The surgery lasted hours. I waited in the lobby, clutching Madison’s note, picturing her crying for her dog. Her crayon drawings of defenders and angels swirled in my mind.
When Amy emerged, exhausted, she said, “She’s through it. The tumor is gone. But it was aggressive. We got what we could.”
“How long?”
“Maybe months. Maybe a year—if we’re lucky.”
“That’s months she wouldn’t have had otherwise.”
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