When Amy emerged, exhausted, she said, “She’s through it. The tumor is gone. But it was aggressive. We got what we could.”
“Maybe months. Maybe a year—if we’re lucky.”
“That’s months she wouldn’t have had otherwise.”
Madison’s address was on the collar tags. The neighborhood was worn-down but lived-in. I knocked on the front door just after dinner.
A man answered. His face paled when he saw me.
“Are you missing a dog?”
He shook. “Daisy? You found her?”
“She’s alive, recovering. Surgery went as well as it could.”
Inside, Madison appeared—small, hopeful.
He started crying.#
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