And then the eyes roll back and the dog’s breathing returns—fast, shallow, pant-pant-pant-pant.

“Drive!” Atlanta cries from the back. “Please please please.”

She can barely see through the tears. She kicks the backseat. As if it matters, as if it means anything at all.

Time dilates, then expands, then falls back in on itself until it’s meaningless mush. Atlanta sits in the waiting room of the veterinarian’s office, waiting to hear something—anything—from Dr. Chennapragada. Holger came and went. Told Atlanta that she’s sure Petry had good reason, but she’d look into it, and if she needed her to call Atlanta’s mother she would—but Atlanta didn’t say anything, just sat there quaking and hoping that if she sat real still, time might be kind enough to fast-forward itself on her behalf.

Eventually the vet comes out. The fabric of her white coat red along the sleeves. Chennapragada is a small woman, but round, hippy—her face the shape of many lush fruits in a netted sack.

She sits next to Atlanta and holds her hand. Tight. Atlanta feels her jaw tighten and the tears start to well up, but she growls—literally growls, a sound she does not expect to make but makes it anyway—and bites back the tears.

“I’m going to say something to you now that you may not want to hear,” Chennapragada says.

“No,” Atlanta says, firm. “Don’t you tell me he didn’t make it.”

“Your dog is stable.” The words, a lift—her expectations countered. “The bullet lodged above his eye. He will have to lose that eye. There will be some . . . other reconstruction necessary.” The doctor pauses. “He has a very hard head, this dog.”

Atlanta almost laughs. “Me too. I have a hard head, too.” She doesn’t understand why the vet said she doesn’t want to hear any of this—it’s good news. It’s not the best news, the best news would be, Your dog didn’t get shot in the head, but considering the circumstances—

“I think you should have the dog put down,” the vet says.

A wall slams between them. “What? You said he’s stable.”

“But he’s going to lose an eye. And some of his skull. The brain is intact but . . .” She pauses, finally gets to the heart of the matter. “This is going to be very expensive.”

“I don’t care.”

“It will be thousands of dollars.”

“I said I don’t care. I got a couple grand.” The mortgage money. You need that to live. “I . . . can pay for some of it now and, and, and you can bill for the rest.”

“Please. There are no guarantees. The world has many dogs. It is painful, but if you were to put the animal down . . .”

Atlanta narrows her eyes. “You put that dog down, I’ll put you down. You fix him. You hear me? You fix him.”