And then I’m there. It’s dark. It’s the middle of the night. But I’m here. I’m standing on the corner with a giant silver dog and the words vet suspended over my head. I stare into the dark glass and see a blood-streaked kid staring back, a giant dog lying broken across her arms, its leg hanging off like a cut of meat. We’re silver in the streetlight. It hurts to breathe; the cold air makes my lungs tight. The girl in the reflection stares back at me, helpless. She has blood on her cheeks.

I don’t know what I thought I’d find. An emergency department? Someone waiting to rush out and help? The lights are off. It’s closed. My front’s warm and sticky. I turn away from the girl in the window. My legs are trembling. They won’t take me any further. I slip. My bum hits the step hard. I keep hold of Splints. I cradle his body across my lap; my screaming arms keep his head off the footpath. His eyes are closed. I pull your jacket down over my hand, ball my fingers to hold the material over my knuckles, I brace Splinter in place with one hand and twist at the hips to smash my fist through the glass. The alarm goes, shrieking. A blue light flashes over my head.

The pain in my hand’s sharp and cold. I let it drop and cradle Splinter’s head in the crook of my elbow. His legs sink toward the ground. There’s nothing else I can do. I bring my face close to his, breathing his air. “Not long now, pup. Not long now.” I hold his breath in my hands, willing him to keep going. The blue light above my head flashes with my heartbeat, with our breath, with my breath. I talk to Splinter. Tell him all the things we’re going to do when he’s better. The walks. The games. The whole roast chicken from the supermarket. He’s quiet in my lap. Heavy. I think he’s still shaking, and breathing. But that could be me. He’s still and I’m cold. Then he’s trying to get up, but it’s not him, it’s someone lifting him away from me. I look up into faces I don’t know. There are more lights. Someone shines a light in my face. Someone’s lifting me up. My legs don’t work. There are voices, but I can’t make out the words. I’m underwater and everyone’s swimming away from me.

“Help him. Please.”

TURNS OUT A girl sitting on the step of the vet’s, bloodied dog in her lap, with a broken glass door behind her and the burglar alarm going off is—finally—enough to make someone call the vet.

And an ambulance.

And the police.

I don’t care.