“Hi, Betsy. Sorry for . . . camping out here. I just don’t want to go home.”

“It’s no big thing. It’s a slow day.” Earlier a woman with a twitchy dust-mop—a shit zoo is the only way that Atlanta can spell the breed’s name in her head—came in, but Betsy turned her away, said the vet would be in surgery all day. Beyond that, the place was dead. “Your dog is pretty amazing.”

Another gulp of water and mouthful of cookie. Atlanta nods. “Yeah. He is.” She sighs. “Dogs aren’t supposed to survive a shot to the head, right?”

“No, not really. It happens more than you’d think, I guess, but it’s still unusual.” Betsy shakes her head. “We had a cat with an arrow through its head come in last year. Some kids were shooting animals at the park—ducks, geese, squirrels. They saw the cat and, well.”

“The cat live?”

“Yeah, but not well. The cat was kinda . . . weird after that.”

“Oh.” Her skin goes clammy. “Will Whitey be . . . weird?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Atlanta stares off at a point that doesn’t exist here in this room. “No, it’s cool.”

It’s a thousand miles from cool.

“Your dog’s breed is rare,” Betsy says. “I was doing some reading. You know those dogs used to hunt mountain lions?”

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah. They chase their prey and just keep throwing themselves against the animal again and again until the prey falls down—and then the rest of the Dogo’s pack joins in, both dog and owner. Hunting mountain lions like that? Lord. That tells me your guy back there is one tough cookie.” She looks at the now-empty plate. “Um, no pun intended. I’m just saying, if any dog’s gonna make it through this, it’s yours.”

“I hope so.” Atlanta forces a game smile. “Thanks.”

Betsy pats Atlanta’s shoulder. “If you need another water, just say the word.”

It’s another three hours when Chennapragada appears and says five words.

You can see him now.

Atlanta does not hesitate.

Going into the back is a slow-motion walk. She wants to hurry, but Chennapragada moves slow with a trundling hip-sway—Atlanta wants to shove her out of the way but wouldn’t know where to go once she did.

The vet takes her to the final door. It swings open, no doorknob. The smell back here is strongly antiseptic, a medicinal sublayer and beneath all that, the smell of musk and fear and animal piss.

There, in the center of the room, on a shiny metal table, is Whitey.

He looks dead.

“He’s not dead,” Chennapragada says, obviously aware of how it looks. “He’s under anesthetic.”

The bullet hole is now hidden behind a square bandage. Below it, the eye is a tight pucker, the fur around it shaved down, stitches suturing the eyelid edges closed.