"Tie it above the wound," I ordered.
I shoved the blue medical tourniquet into the man's bloody palm.
He snatched the rubber strap. He wrapped it tight around the black dog's thigh. "Thank you," he grunted, pressing his entire body weight against the gash. "Hold on, buddy. Just hold on."
"Get a gurney out here!" the receptionist yelled. She sprinted from behind the glass partition, her sneakers squeaking against the wet floor.
"He's losing too much blood." The man's hands shook. "I found him on the side of the highway. Someone hit him and just kept driving."
"Keep the pressure steady," I told him. "Don't let up for a second. If you loosen it, he bleeds out."
"I have it," he said. He locked his eyes onto mine. His gaze was frantic but grateful. "Are you a vet?"
"No." The word came out hollow. "I just know how quickly they can slip away."
The vet pushed through the swinging doors. He took one look at the pool of dark red spreading across the linoleum. "Bring him into room two. Now."
"I have him," the man said, lifting the animal. "I have you, I promise."
"Sir, you can't go back there," the receptionist warned.
"Try and stop me," he fired back, kicking the swinging door open with his heavy work boot.
When they disappeared down the hallway, I retrieved the wooden urn from the vinyl bench. I walked out the front doors into the freezing wind.
Two hours later, I pushed my front door open.
The house sat in total darkness.
"I'm home," I said out loud.
No clicking nails on the hardwood. No tail thumping against the baseboards. Just silence.
I flicked the entryway switch. The overhead light illuminated the empty orthopedic dog bed tucked under the console table. Faded golden hair clung to the gray fabric.
I passed the living room without stopping. I marched straight down the hallway into Mark's home office. I unlocked the bottom drawer of his mahogany desk.
I pulled out the manila envelope. I had printed the documents six months ago, right after I found the first hotel receipt in Mark's coat pocket.
I slid the crisp white pages out.
"Petition for Dissolution of Marriage," I read aloud.
I grabbed a pen from the desk caddy. I signed my name on the bottom line. The ink bled slightly into the paper.
My phone rang in my jacket pocket. It was an unknown number, but the local area code gave it away. Mark using someone else's phone.
I answered it. "Speak."
"What kind of sick joke is this?" Mark demanded. His voice echoed slightly, like he was standing in a parking garage.
"Buddy is dead," I said flatly.
"You're lying to punish me for not leaving the recital," he snapped.
