I was out the door before Coach could ask what was wrong.
By the time I reached the clinic, my heart was pounding, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Through the front windows, chaos: cameras flashing like strobes, Palisade desperately trying to protect patients, and Casey's ashen face.
The rage hit me like a freight train.
These bastards had invaded Palisade's clinic, terrorized sick animals, and frightened my daughter. Every instinct screamed at me to go in there and physically throw them out. To grab cameras and smash them. To make them understand what happens when you threaten my family.
My hand was already on the door handle when Dr. Reyes' voice cut through the red haze:"That moment between stimulus and response—that's where we do our work."
My hand locked onto the door.
Stop.
Count to three.
Casey was inside, watching. Whatever I did next, she would see. She would remember.
Take a breath.
In through my nose, out through my mouth. The rage still clawed at my chest, but I could feel its boundaries, control it rather than letting it take over.
Observe.
These people had frightened my daughter. Invaded a place that should be safe. Shown complete disregard for boundaries and decency. All valid reasons for anger.
But Casey didn't need a father who solved problems with his fists. She needed a father who could stay calm when it mattered most.
Proceed.
I took one more breath, then opened the door and walked in with deliberate calm.
The scene was worse up close. Photographers crowded the small reception area, cameras pointed at the back where Toby chittered in distress. Mrs. Johnson pressed against the wall with her elderly poodle. And Palisade stood between the chaos and the treatment rooms, her face showing the strain of trying to protect everyone.
Casey was backed against the wall near Toby's enclosure, eyes wide with fear.
Heat flooded back. My fists clenched.
Not now. Not here. Not in front of her.
"What the hell is going on here?" My voice cut through the chaos. Every eye turned to me, cameras swiveling to capture this new angle.
I forced myself to walk, not charge. To speak, not shout. To use my presence and authority instead of my fists.
"You're trespassing on private property," I continued, moving to stand between the photographers and my family. "You have three seconds to leave before I call the police."
"Just a few questions about your daughter!" one started.
"Not here. Not now. Not ever." I pulled out my phone, hands trembling only slightly. "One."
A photographer moved toward Casey, trying to get a better angle. His camera lens pointed directly at her terrified face.
Stop. Breathe. Observe. Proceed.
But then he reached out to guide her into better lighting.
The techniques shattered.
My hand shot out and locked around his wrist before conscious thought caught up with instinct. "Don't. Touch. Her."
