At last, Derrick burst into the clinic, chest heaving. The receptionist blinked in surprise, halfway through her early-morning coffee. “I—I have the money,” Derrick gasped, voice trembling with urgency. The veterinarian stepped forward, brow furrowed. “We were preparing to administer euthanasia,” he said gravely. “Rusty’s deteriorating fast.”
The receptionist set her coffee down, eyes flickering with concern. “Sir,” she began, voice gentle, “I’m so sorry Rusty’s taken a turn.” Derrick’s breathing was ragged as he held out the crumpled papers. “Please—whatever you need,” he implored. “Just promise me you’ll do all you can.”