But then he saw the dog’s eyes.

By 7:00 AM, the rain had stopped. Beans was wrapped in a heated blanket, a breathing tube still in his throat, his vitals fragile but stable. Leo peeled off his gloves, which were stiff with dried blood, and sat down on the cold linoleum floor. He leaned his head against the cage where Beans lay. He was shaking—from adrenaline, from fatigue, from the ghost of a frozen pond and a dog that had refused to let go.

"Let’s go," Leo said, his voice clearing of all doubt. "Prep OR 2. I need two units of cross-matched blood, and page Dr. Alvarez for a surgical assist."

Leo had a choice. The rational, clinical choice was euthanasia. A dog with a shattered pelvis, a ruptured spleen, and God knew what else had a slim chance. The surgery would take four hours, cost the owner a fortune, and even if he survived the night, the quality of life was a gamble. It was the kind of decision Leo had made a hundred times. It’s just a dog, the practical part of his brain whispered. Don't get attached. Don't waste resources.