"Somebody help me!" I screamed. I kicked the glass door of the clinic wide open.
The door rebounded and clipped my shoulder. I ignored the sting and dragged the blanket across the linoleum.
A woman in blue scrubs bolted from behind the reception desk. "Get a gurney!" she yelled over her shoulder.
"He can't stand," I gasped. "He's seizing."
"Lift on three," a male vet said. He appeared beside us and grabbed the front corners of the blanket. "One, two, three."
They hoisted Buddy onto the stainless-steel examination table. The metal rang beneath his weight, and a weak, rattling whine escaped him.
"What is his name?" the vet asked. He pulled a penlight from his pocket and shined it into Buddy's cloudy eyes.
"Buddy. He's fourteen."
"Any underlying conditions?"
"Arthritis," I answered quickly. "But tonight he just collapsed. His hind legs stopped working."
The vet pressed a stethoscope to the dog's ribs. Silence stretched for ten agonizing seconds. The only sound in the room was the hum of the fluorescent lights.
"His heart rate is plummeting," the vet said. He dropped the stethoscope around his neck. "His pupils aren't responding."
"Fix him," I said. "Give him fluids. Operate. Do anything."
The vet shook his head. "His organs are shutting down. I'm so sorry."
"Are you sure?"
"There's nothing we can do to reverse this."
"How much time does he have?" I asked.
"Minutes," the vet replied gently. "He's suffering."
"Do it," I whispered. "Stop the pain."
"I need you to sign this consent form first," the receptionist said. She slid a clipboard onto the edge of the steel table.
I took the pen, my hand shaking as I scrawled my name across the bottom line.
The nurse shaved a small patch of fur on Buddy's front leg. The vet uncapped a syringe filled with bright pink liquid.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"Wait," I said.
I leaned over the table. I pressed my cheek against Buddy's gray forehead. His fur smelled like old leaves and dust.
"You're a good boy," I murmured into his ear. "You can sleep now."
"I'm giving the injection now," the vet said softly.
The plunger went down. I kept my face buried in his fur. The erratic thumping against my palms slowed, stuttered, and vanished. The heart monitor hummed a single continuous tone.
"He's gone," the vet said.
I stood before the unbroken line on the screen.
I didn't reach for my phone. I didn't call Mark or text Aiden. It sat silent in my pocket while sixteen years of marriage—and the mother I had been for fifteen years—ended at that monitor.
A dry, hacking laugh escaped my throat. The sound echoed off the tile walls, startling the nurse.
"Ma'am?" she asked, stepping back.
"I'm fine." I wiped my dry eyes. "Please arrange a private cremation. I'll wait."
"Do you want a moment alone with him?" the vet asked.
"No. He isn't in there anymore."
I walked out of the examination room. I sat on a cracked vinyl bench in the waiting area. A clock ticked above the reception desk.
"The overnight technician is here," the receptionist said from behind the partition. "It will take about ninety minutes."
"I'll wait," I replied.
"Are you waiting on a ride, ma'am?"
"No. I drove myself."
"It's just you tonight?"
"Yes. Just me."
My phone vibrated against my thigh. I pulled it out. A social media notification flashed across the locked screen. Sarah, a neighbor from two streets over, had tagged Mark in a post.
I tapped the alert. The screen loaded a brightly lit photograph.
Mark stood in the center of a crowded auditorium lobby. His arm wrapped tightly around Chloe's waist. On his other side stood Aiden, wearing his varsity hockey jacket, grinning widely. Chloe's daughter, Lily, stood in front of them, holding a towering gold dance trophy.
They all beamed at the camera.
I read the caption beneath the photo.
"So glad I ran into these guys! Perfect family night celebrating Lily's big win!"
My thumb hovered over the image. Mark had refused to leave the recital. Aiden had claimed he was at a post-game party with his teammates.
"You're embarrassing me in front of the guys," Aiden had said on the phone.
"Do you have to ruin the mood right now?" Mark had hissed.
They were together. Playing house with another woman while I dragged our dying dog across the concrete driveway.
"Perfect family night," I read aloud.
I pressed the power button, and the screen went black. My jaw clenched until my teeth ached. No tears came. There was only a cold, hollow space where my family had been.
I opened my messages. I selected the group chat containing Mark and Aiden.
I typed three words: "Buddy is dead."
I hit send. I blocked both of their numbers.
Footsteps approached. The nurse from the examination room stopped in front of the bench.
"Mrs. Evans?" she asked softly.
"Yes," I replied. I stood up.
She held out a smooth wooden urn. On top rested a clear bag containing Buddy's faded red collar and his rabies tag.
"He's ready to go home," she said.
I took the urn. The wood felt icy against my palms. "Thank you."
"Take all the time you need," she offered. She pointed toward the exit. "The front doors lock automatically, but you can push them open from the inside."
"I'm leaving now."
I turned toward the exit. I tucked the plastic bag into my coat pocket and gripped the wooden box with both hands.
The glass doors burst open.
The metal frames slammed against the brick walls. A tall man in a canvas work jacket—ADAM stitched above the pocket—charged into the lobby. His boots pounded the linoleum, and blood soaked the front of his shirt.
In his arms, he carried a large, mangled black dog.
"Doctor, save him!" the man roared, his voice echoing through the quiet clinic.
