The staff moved quickly, guiding him through the double doors without hesitation, the blanket slipping slightly as he adjusted his grip, revealing a flash of wiry fur and wide, frightened eyes.
For a moment, the room seemed to exhale.
Then it settled again into that same tense quiet, as if nothing had changed and everything had.
Twenty minutes later, the man came back out alone.
He didn’t look around. Didn’t ask questions. He just walked to a chair across from me and sat down carefully, like even that small movement required more energy than he had to spare.
In his hands was a red leash, wrapped so tightly around his fingers that the color seemed to press into his skin.
I noticed small things, the way you do when you’re trying not to think about your own fear.
His boots were old but polished.
His shirt was clean, though the collar had frayed at the edges.
He looked like someone who still took pride in what he could control, even if everything else had slipped beyond his reach.
A few minutes later, the veterinarian came out.
