Chương 2
Elena stepped back.
Damian looked at her. “You’re coming.”
“I’m covered in dog hair.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
“It should be.”
Atlas’s paw flexed against the linen.
Elena got in.
The doors closed, shutting out the restaurant and its staring windows.
The driver accelerated before anyone had fastened a seat belt.
Damian sat on the floor of the vehicle with one knee braced against the seat. Atlas’s head rested in his lap. The dog’s tongue had begun to pale. Elena pressed two fingers to the inside of his rear leg, searching for the pulse.
“Still there,” she said. “Fast.”
Damian watched her fingers. “Are you a vet?”
“No.”
“Veterinary nurse?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know this?”
“I worked reception at an emergency clinic in Queens for eleven months.”
“Receptionists diagnose gastric torsion?”
“Receptionists hear veterinarians explain why owners waited too long.”
He looked down at Atlas.
The hard line of his jaw shifted.
One of the bodyguards, seated in front, turned partly around. “Sir, Dr. Levin is meeting us.”
Damian nodded.
Elena noticed his left hand. He kept rubbing his thumb along the edge of his gold watch, back and forth, never looking at it.
“How was he outside alone?” she asked.
The bodyguard glanced toward Damian, then forward again.
Damian’s answer took a moment. “He wasn’t supposed to be.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I arrived through the private garage. Atlas was with my driver.”
“Where’s your driver?”
“Looking for him, apparently.”
Elena stared at him.
He accepted the stare.
“We came for dinner,” he said. “Atlas hates underground garages. Gerald was supposed to walk him around the block and bring him through the service entrance.”
“Was he sick before tonight?”
“He skipped breakfast.”
“And you still brought him?”
“He skips meals sometimes.”
“Not if his stomach was already swollen.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Did you check?”
His eyes lifted to hers.
The car took a corner too quickly. Elena placed a hand against Atlas’s shoulder to keep him from rolling.
“No,” Damian said.
There was no defense in the word. That made it harder to stay angry.
The veterinary hospital had a red-lit emergency sign above a glass entrance. Two technicians rushed out with a wheeled stretcher before the SUV stopped. Elena gave them the timeline while they transferred Atlas. One technician clipped a pulse monitor to his tongue. Another called out numbers that made Damian’s bodyguard swear softly.
The doors swung shut behind the dog.
Damian remained in the lobby with the linen tablecloth hanging from his hands.
It had been white before. Now it bore gray streaks from the sidewalk and the faint print of Atlas’s paw.
A receptionist pushed a tablet across the counter. “We need authorization for emergency stabilization and possible surgery.”
Damian took the stylus.
“How old is he?” she asked.
“Seven.”
“Any previous abdominal surgery?”
“No.”
“Medication?”
“Carprofen when his hip acts up.”
“Allergies?”
“None.”
“Primary veterinarian?”
“North Shore Animal Medical. Dr. Levin.”
“Relationship to patient?”
Damian looked at her.
The receptionist blinked, then smiled nervously. “Owner. Sorry. Long night.”
He signed.
Elena stood beside a vending machine, suddenly aware that she had left her phone in her apron locker. Her knee throbbed. The restaurant’s black vest pulled tight across her ribs when she breathed. She had not eaten since four in the afternoon, when she had swallowed half a banana over the kitchen sink because the pastry chef needed the staff table.
One of the bodyguards approached with a clean handkerchief.
“For your wrist.”
Elena looked at him.
He was younger than Damian, perhaps thirty-five, with a shaved head and the square posture of someone who had spent years being told where to stand.
“Thank you.”
“Marcus,” he said.
“Elena.”
“I heard.”
She pressed the cloth to the scrape.
The inner doors opened. A woman in blue scrubs came into the lobby, removing gloves as she walked.
“Mr. Vale?”
Damian stood.
“I’m Dr. Cho. Atlas has gastric dilatation with probable volvulus. His stomach has twisted. We’ve decompressed some of the pressure, and his blood pressure is responding, but he needs surgery now.”
Damian’s face remained composed. Only his thumb moved against the watch again.
“What are his odds?”
“His arriving this quickly helps. I won’t give you false certainty. There may be damage to the stomach wall or spleen. We won’t know until we’re in.”
“Do it.”
“We are preparing now.”
Dr. Cho looked toward Elena. “You’re the one who found him?”
“Yes.”
“You may have saved his life.”
The words hit Elena strangely. Not as praise. As something heavy she had almost failed to lift.
Dr. Cho returned through the doors.
Damian stared at the floor.
Marcus went to make a call. The second bodyguard, whose name Elena did not know, remained near the entrance.
“Why did you leave the restaurant?” Damian asked.
Elena gave a small, incredulous laugh. “Your dog was dying.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
She knew. She folded the handkerchief over the scrape again.
“I needed the job,” she said. “I still left.”
Damian lowered himself into one of the plastic chairs. His expensive suit pulled at the shoulders. Without the restaurant around him, he looked less like the man from magazine profiles and more like someone who had been told the future might not contain the creature he loved.
“Sit down,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding on the floor.”
“It’s a scrape.”
“You’re limping.”
“I hit my knee.”
He gestured to the chair beside him. “Then sit.”
She sat because the room had begun to tilt.
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. A woman in pajama pants cried quietly near the exit while a teenage boy held a cardboard carrier with both hands. Somewhere beyond the doors, a machine emitted a steady electronic tone. The vending machine hummed and dropped a bottle of water no one had purchased.
Damian looked toward the sound.
“That happens sometimes,” Elena said.
“What does?”
May you like
“It just gives things away.”
He studied the machine, then reached down and picked up the bottle. “That’s a terrible business model.”
