“That dog kept him alive.”
“And we’re grateful,” she replied, though it sounded rehearsed, “but we can’t place a child in a home with an unregistered animal of that size and breed.”
I glanced toward the bay doors just as the animal control truck pulled in, its presence quiet but final.
Something in me tightened.
Not anger, not yet—just recognition.
I had followed rules my entire life.
I had believed in them.
But standing there, watching that boy begin to stir on the stretcher, his small hand instinctively reaching for the dog before his eyes were even fully open, I realized that sometimes rules are written by people who have never had to choose between what is allowed and what is right.
“No,” I said.
It came out simpler than I expected.
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