We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the night settling over us.
"I've never been so scared," Charity admits quietly.
"Me neither." I kiss her temple. "But we didn't fall apart. We got him here. We saved him."
Around noon, a vet tech approaches. "He's awake. And asking for you, in his way."
We follow her through the double doors into recovery. Lucky lies on a padded table, IV in his leg, cone around his neck, looking groggy but alive. So beautifully, impossibly alive.
His tail gives a tired little wag when he sees us.
I press my forehead gently to his, careful of all the tubes and monitors. "Hey, survivor. You scared the hell out of us."
Charity's crying as she strokes his head with gentle fingers. "We've got you, baby. You're safe now."
Lucky's tail gives a relieved wag, stronger this time.
"You can stay for a few minutes," Dr. Lopez says. "But he needs rest, and by the look of things, so do you."
We stay until Lucky falls asleep, his breathing steady and even, his body relaxed in a way it wasn't this morning. Then we stumble out into the afternoon sunshine, exhausted and emotionally wrung out… and together.
"I need food," Charity says. "And coffee. And maybe to sleep for twelve hours."
"Food first." I put my arm around her shoulders. "There's a diner two blocks from here."
"How do you know that?"
"I know where all the diners are. Street performer survival skill."
She laughs, and it sounds slightly hysterical. "We just spent twelve thousand dollars saving a slightly crippled stray dog."
"Best money we ever spent."
"Agreed."
We walk toward the diner. The November sun is weak but welcome after the fluorescent harshness of the vet clinic. People pass us on the sidewalk—a woman with a phone, someone walking their dog, the normal flow of city life.
We walk into the diner holding hands, order coffee and eggs, and for a brief moment, we let ourselves breathe.
Lucky is safe. We're together. Everything else can wait.
Chapter Eighteen
Charity
The first text comes while we're waiting for our eggs.
My phone buzzes on the diner table. Mother. I almost ignore it—after Friday's disaster, I've been expecting angry calls and demands to "discuss my behavior"—but something makes me check.
Mother:Call me. Immediately.
My stomach tightens. That's not her usual tone. That's panic.
"What's wrong?" Draco asks, reading my expression.
"I don't know." I'm already dialing. "My mother sounds—"
She answers before the first ring finishes. "Where are you?"
