The vet clinic was small, family-run. The kind of place that smelled like antiseptic and hope. The doctor—an older man with tired eyes—examined Atticus gently.
“He’s hypothermic,” he said. “And his joints are severely inflamed. But… you got him here in time.”
In time.
Those three words hit harder than anything my mother had said the night before.
We sat in silence while they warmed him, gave him fluids, and pain medication. Sarah held onto my arm the entire time, like if she let go, everything might fall apart again.
“Can I ask you something?” the vet said when he came back.
I nodded.
“How long was he outside?”
I hesitated. Then I told the truth.
The vet’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t comment. He just looked at Atticus through the glass and said, quietly:
