I roll off the couch and find him in the corner, pacing in tight circles. His belly looks wrong. Swollen. Distended in a way that makes my stomach drop even though I don't know why yet.
"Hey, boy." I crouch beside him, reaching out slowly. "What's going on?"
He tries to lick my hand but whines again instead. Then he makes this awful retching sound—like he's trying to vomit but nothing comes up. Just dry heaves that shake his whole body.
Shit.
I've seen enough street dogs die to know when something's very wrong. This isn't just an upset stomach. This is bad.
Lucky's pacing gets more frantic. He keeps looking at me with those brown eyes, pleading, like he's asking me to fix this and I have no idea how.
My phone's in my hand before I consciously decide to call her. It rings twice before Charity answers, voice thick with sleep.
"Draco? What's wrong?"
"It's Lucky." I keep my voice calm even though my pulse is hammering. "Something's wrong with him. His stomach's swollen, and he keeps trying to throw up, but nothing's coming out."
I hear her sit up sharply, sheets rustling. "How long has he been like this?"
"Just woke me up. Maybe five minutes."
"I’m grabbing my emergency cash—I’ll be right there."
She's there in less than three minutes. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and it looks as if she’s wearing the clothes she had on yesterday, with a coat thrown over them. The second she sees Lucky, her face goes pale.
"Oh, no." She kneels beside him, hands hovering over his distended belly without touching. "This looks like bloat."
"What's bloat?"
"Bloat. GDV—gastric dilatation-volvulus." She's pulling out her phone, fingers shaking. "I Googled everything about dog emergencies after we got Lucky. The stomach fills with gas and can twist on itself. It's deadly if we don't get him to a vet immediately."
The bottom drops out of my stomach. "How do we—"
"There's a 24-hour emergency vet clinic. SilverPoint on West 15th Street." She's already tapping her phone screen. "We need to go. Right now."
I scoop Lucky up as gently as I can. He whimpers, and the sound cuts through me like a blade. This dog chose us. Trusted us. Limped into our lives with his three good legs and his street-survivor instincts and decided we were pack.
We can't lose him.
"Taxi. Uber. Something now." I'm already moving toward the door.
"At midnight?" But she's already tapping her phone. "Okay. Okay. There's an Uber three minutes away. We need to meet it at the back gate. Otherwise, they’ll never get the right address. They won't know where to find us on the property."
She looks up from the screen and her expression grows even more serious. "Draco, we’ll need money for this. Big money."
I know where she’s going with this and have no reason to argue when she darts into her bedroom and comesback as she slides a fat stack of cash into the inner pouch of her purse. She looks as though she’s expecting me to scold her, but I breathe, "Good thinking," as we hurry out the door.
Those three minutes feel like hours. We hurry through the dark estate grounds, Lucky heavy in my arms. His breathing is getting more labored, each inhale a struggle. Charity has her phone out, watching the little car icon creep closer on the screen.
The back gate is wrought iron and ancient, set into the stone wall that surrounds the property. A discreet bronze plaque reads "Pembroke Estate," but there's no visible address from the street side.
"Come on, come on," Charity mutters, staring at her phone.
A silver Toyota pulls up. The driver—a tired-looking guy in his fifties—rolls down the window and takes one look at Lucky in my arms.
"No dogs," he starts.
"Please." Charity's voice breaks. "He's dying. We'll pay triple. I'll give you a hundred dollars cash right now, and more when we get there."
