She pulls out a hundred dollar bill, keeping the rest of her wad hidden from sight–smart girl.
Money talks. It always does.
"SilverPoint Vet on West 15th," the driver says, unlocking the doors. "Get in."
I climb into the back seat, Lucky cradled against my chest. Charity slides in beside me, pressing the money into the driver's hand before he can change his mind.
"Make it fast," she says. "Please."
The driver's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. He sees Lucky. Sees our fear. Nods once and hits the gas.
Through the window, I watch the mansion recede—all those perfect rooms where Charity's spent her whole life, and none of them matter right now. Nothing matters except this limping stray who chose us.
"How far?" I ask.
"Ten, maybe twelve minutes this time of night," the driver says.
"Five," Charity says firmly. "Please. I'll pay whatever you want."
The driver doesn't answer, just presses harder on the accelerator.
The car tears through empty streets, not stopping for red lights. They blur past in streaks of color. Charity has her hand on Lucky's head, murmuring reassurances that I don't think any of us believe.
"We're almost there," she keeps saying. "Hold on, baby. We're almost there."
I count his heartbeats against my palm. Count the blocks flying past. Count the seconds until we can get him help.
Less than eight minutes later, the driver pulls up in front of a building with blue neon that reads SILVERPOINT EMERGENCY VET CLINIC. I'm out of the car before it's fully stopped, Lucky in my arms, pushing through glass doors into fluorescent brightness.
A woman in scrubs looks up from the desk, takes one look at Lucky's distended belly, and hits a button.
"Possible GDV," she calls out. "I need a vet stat."
Two more techs appear with a gurney. They lift him off my arms with practiced efficiency and disappear through double doors.
My hands close around air. My chest feels all wrong.
Charity’s hand finds mine. "They know what they're doing."
"What if it's too late?" My voice is rough. "What if we were too slow?"
"We weren't." She squeezes hard. "You woke up. You called me. We got him here. That's all we could do."
The woman at the desk—her name tag says "Nicole"—gestures us over. "I'll need some information. Your name?"
"Charity. Charity Pembroke." Her voice is steadier than her hands. "And this is Draco."
Nicole's fingers pause over the keyboard. Her eyes flick up to Charity's face, widen slightly. Recognition. "The… Charity Pembroke? From the—"
"Yes." Charity cuts her off, not unkindly. "But right now I'm just someone whose dog is dying. Can we focus on that?"
Nicole nods quickly, professional mask sliding back into place. But I see her glance at her phone on the desk. See the calculation in her eyes.
Great. Even here, even now, Charity's name means something.
"Of course. I'll need information about the patient. Dog's name?"
"Lucky," I say, pulling focus back to what matters. "Age maybe four or five. Medical history: stray we found a few weeks ago. Three good legs. Survivor."
