And then—it happened.
She froze. Her eyes narrowed. She leaned closer, pressing her stethoscope against Leo’s chest, then to his side. Her hand hovered mid-air. Her brows shot up.
“Stop!” she shouted suddenly, startling everyone in the room. The syringe slipped from her grasp.
Artem lifted his head, shocked. “What… what is it?”
The vet’s tone shifted from sorrow to urgency. “This isn’t organ failure. Listen—his heart is strong. His breathing is weak because of infection, not collapse.”
She pressed her palm to Leo’s body, checked his gums, his temperature. Her voice grew sharp, commanding:
“Thermometer! IV line—now! His fever is dangerously high. This is sepsis, not the end of life. He doesn’t need release—he needs treatment!”
Artem’s voice cracked between hope and fear. “You mean… he can survive?”
The vet looked him in the eye. “If we act quickly—yes. He’s not ready to leave. Not today.”
Leo was rushed into emergency treatment. Artem waited outside on a narrow bench where countless others had once carried grief. Each sound from behind the closed door made him flinch—papers rustling, glass clinking, hurried footsteps.
He closed his eyes and clung to the memory of Leo’s embrace. His dog hadn’t hugged him to say goodbye. He had hugged him to beg for one more chance.
