Nicole types efficiently. "And how long has he been showing symptoms?"
"Twenty minutes, maybe." Charity leans against the counter. "He was fine when we went to bed. Draco woke up to him whining."
A vet emerges from the double doors—young, competent-looking, with kind eyes and blood on her scrubs. My stomach clenches.
"Your dog has gastric dilatation-volvulus," she says without preamble. "His stomach has twisted. We need to operate immediately to untwist it and tack it in place so it can't happen again. Without surgery, he won't survive the night."
"Do it," we say together.
"The surgery will cost between eight and twelve thousand dollars. We'll need a deposit to begin–at least half up front. Four thousand dollars."
"I’ve got cash." Charity's already digging in her purse.
"Here." Charity pulls out the bills, quickly counts out exactly four thousand, and sets it on the counter in a neat pile. "Start the surgery."
Nicole takes it as though people hand her stacks of hundreds every day.
"Thank you. We’ll update you as soon as he's stable."
Charity sags against me, shaking. I wrap an arm around her shoulders.
"You okay?" I murmur.
"Terrified."
We collapse into plastic chairs to wait. The clinic is starting to fill up with other emergencies—a cat with labored breathing, a dog that ate something it shouldn't have, a rabbit with a broken leg. All these animals depending on their humans to save them.
Time crawls. Twenty minutes pass. Thirty.
A vet tech comes out, sees our anxious faces. "Lucky's stable. Surgery is progressing well. Dr. Lopez will update you when she's done."
Relief comes, but the fear stays. Stable isn’t saved.
Another forty minutes. Charity dozes fitfully against my shoulder, exhausted from the adrenaline crash and the stress of getting here. I stay awake, watching the double doors, counting the minutes.
Finally, Dr. Lopez emerges. Her scrubs are different—clean now—and she's smiling.
I shake Charity awake. "She's coming."
We stand together as the vet approaches.
"Surgery was successful," she says, and I feel Charity sag against me with relief. "We untwisted his stomach and performed a gastropexy to tack it in place. He'll need to stay for observation for at least 48 hours, but barring complications, he should make a full recovery."
"Can we see him?" Charity asks.
"He's in recovery right now, still under anesthesia. But once he wakes up, absolutely." Dr. Lopez consults her tablet. "The final cost came to ten thousand, eighthundred and forty-seven dollars. You've paid four thousand already, so the remaining balance is six thousand, eight hundred and forty-seven."
"Here." Charity pulls out more bills from her coat pocket, counts, and hands it over. "This should cover it."
"When he wakes up," I say, "can we see him?"
The vet's smile softens. "Absolutely. In fact, familiar faces will help him recover faster. You two brought him in quickly enough to save his life. You did everything right."
After she leaves to process the payment, Charity and I sink back into our chairs.
"We did it," she whispers.
"Yeah." I pull her close. "We did."
