Chapter 23 #2
All she needed to do was keep lying.
Her stomach turned at the thought, but she pushed it down. What choice did she have?
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and for a split second, she let herself hope.
But when she pulled it out, it was just the lock screen, the same unanswered message staring back at her from five days ago.
Christine
Are you okay?
Oakland swallowed hard.
She saw the message five days ago, right after everything blew up. She stared at it for hours, willing herself to type something, anything. But she didn’t.
Christine deserved better than half-truths and carefully sidestepped conversations. She deserved someone who could be honest. Someone who wasn’t about to stand in front of a room full of men, smile, and lie just to belong to a community that would never truly accept her.
Christine deserved someone who could answer a simple text message.
Oakland locked her phone and shoved it back into her pocket.
She was doing the right thing.
Christine would move on. She would find someone else.
Someone who wasn’t losing their grip.
“Dr. Pratt, can you come out here?”
Nancy’s voice was sharp, urgent. Oakland was already moving before she could think, tucking her phone away and jogging toward the waiting room.
A guy, in his early twenties, dark hair sticking to his forehead from the snow, stood in the center of the lobby, soaking wet, his arms locked around a small white dog.
Blood streaked his jacket, his hands staining the dog’s fur.
He was shivering so hard he could barely stand, but his grip on the dog was ironclad.
“One of those fucking self-driving cars hit him,” he choked out, his voice raw.
“We were just walking, and it…” He swallowed hard, chest heaving.
“It came out of nowhere. Didn’t slow down.
Didn’t stop. Just… just kept going like we weren’t even there.
” His breath hitched, and he clutched the dog tighter.
“Please, he’s still alive, he’s still breathing?—”
Oakland didn’t waste another second.
“Come with me,” she said, guiding him into an exam room.
He followed without hesitation, but when they reached the table, he didn’t move.
“You can lay him down here,” Oakland said gently.
The guy just held on tighter.
“Sir,” she tried again. “I need to examine him.”
His jaw clenched. For a second, she thought he’d refuse. But then, slowly, he bent forward, his grip reluctant, as though letting go would somehow make things worse.
Oakland worked fast.
The dog’s breathing was shallow, rapid, too rapid. She pressed her fingers against his tiny ribs, feeling the uneven flutter of his pulse. Weak. Thready. Not good.
She checked his pupils. One shrank under the light. The other didn’t respond at all.
Brain trauma.
His back legs were limp, twisted unnaturally. When she pressed gently along his spine, his body barely reacted.
No pain response. Spinal damage.
Internal bleeding was almost inevitable. His gums were pale, nearly white.
This was bad.
The guy hovered close, eyes darting over her face, searching for any sign of hope. “You can fix him, right?” His voice cracked.
Oakland swallowed. “He’s in really critical condition. His injuries?—”
“Then fix him,” he snapped, desperation bleeding into anger. “Give him surgery, do whatever you have to do. I don’t care what it costs.”
Oakland hesitated. She could start fluids, she could get him on oxygen, she could do X-rays, she could try, but deep down, she knew.
This dog wasn’t going to make it.
She met his eyes. “Even with treatment, there’s a strong chance he won’t survive. He has spine damage. There’s internal bleeding. Brain trauma. If we?—”
“I don’t care,” the guy cut in, his voice sharp. “He’s alive. So save him.”
Oakland exhaled. “The kindest thing we can do is?—”
“No,” he snapped.
She hesitated.
“I need you to listen to me.” She softened her tone. “I know this is hard, but if he’s suffering?—”
“I said no,” he nearly shouted, and his voice cracked at the edges. His whole body was trembling.
The dog let out a weak, pitiful whimper. His body shuddered.
Then, suddenly, his breathing changed.
It was rapid, shallow, gasping. His little chest was rising and falling so fast it was barely drawing air.
“Something’s wrong,” the guy choked out, panic setting in. “He’s… do something!”
She grabbed a syringe, reaching for an IV line, but there wasn’t one yet.
It was too late.
The dog gave one last, strained breath, then let it out in a slow, shuddering exhale.
His tiny body stilled.
For a moment, everything in the room froze.
Then, “No.”
The guy surged forward, grabbing the dog’s tiny paw and gently shaking it as if he could wake him up.
“Come on, buddy, come on!” His voice cracked. “Don’t do this. Please.” His grip tightened. “You can do CPR, right? You can bring him back.”
Oakland’s throat closed.
She knew this moment.
She hated this moment.
She wanted to give him something, some comfort, some sort of false hope, but?—
“Please,” he begged. “Please, just try.”
She clenched her jaw. “He’s dead.” She made sure to use the words to ensure he’d understand.
“No, he’s not,” he snapped, shaking the tiny body harder. “You’re just giving up!”
Oakland stayed quiet.
His face crumpled.
“Please,” he whispered. “I can’t, he’s my dog!” His voice broke.