Maxim
I’m greeted at the door by my six-year-old nephew, Dmytro. He runs up to me and bounces impatiently on the spot while I take off my shoes in the hallway.
“Why aren’t you at school?” I ask in a stern tone as I head toward the kitchen, where I can hear the clatter of pots and pans.
“My throat hurts,” he replies, trying to keep up with me.
My sister, Rita, meets me with a grater in her hand. Something delicious and fragrant is simmering on the stove. We live in the same building, just in different entrances, so I stop by often. I fix things around her apartment, and she treats me to all sorts of tasty dishes in return. Rita lives alone with her son. Her deadbeat husband disappeared from their lives about two years ago. A lazy gambler, he put her through hell until she finally had enough.
“Thanks for coming. I don’t even know what to do with him,” Rita frets, nodding toward her feet. “I’m worried he’s not gonna make it. Poor dog—Dmytro’s so attached to him.”
Under the table by her feet lies a black dachshund. Usually lively and playful, he doesn’t react at all to my arrival. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is labored. Dmytro squats beside him, stroking his belly and whispering something softly.
“How long has he been like this?” I ask.
“Since last night,” she answers.
Rita wipes her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand. Her thin, light hair is pulled tightly into a bun, though a few strands have escaped and keep falling into her eyes. She tucks them behind her ear repeatedly, though they don’t stay there for long.
“I’ll try to help him. I know a clinic—I pass by it every day on my way to work,” I say with a heavy sigh.
I crouch down next to my nephew and lift the little dog into my arms. He doesn’t respond at all; his short legs dangle limply. Sausage is in really bad shape. Dmytro watches his buddy with worried eyes.
“I wanna come with you,” he demands as I head for the hallway.
He runs after me and grabs at my pant leg. Rita follows us out and sternly pulls her son back.
“Uncle Maxim doesn’t have time to play with you. He’s taking Sausage to get better, and soon Olena will be here to hang out with you.”
The kid whines and fusses, but we don’t give in to his tantrum. Rita has to get to work, and the neighbor’s daughter often babysits for her when I’m busy and there’s no one else to watch Dmytro.
I close the apartment door behind me, leaving my nephew’s whimpering in the background. No time to comfort him—I’ve got to save the dog.
Luba
Today’s a busy day for spay and neuter surgeries. We’ve already had two cats this morning, and a dog is scheduled to arrive in half an hour. I chalk up this surge of pet owners to the spring season, when their furry friends get a little too frisky. Whoever’s nerves gave out first ends up here with us.
Victoria, my boss, is taking a break with a cup of coffee, sorting through paperwork on her computer. I’m tidying up the workspace and getting ready for the next client. I’ve been working at this vet clinic for a good six months, but Victoria handles all the major tasks with the animals. She’s an excellent specialist with years of experience under her belt. I’m just her assistant—helping during surgeries, cleaning up, and booking clients. Sometimes she lets me give an injection or change a bandage, but she doesn’t trust me with anything serious. Says I’d probably mess it up. I don’t argue, even though I was a top student when I studied to be a vet. But who am I to throw my weight around here?
I did get chewed out this morning for being late—Victoria’s a tough woman. But when she heard I almost got hit by a car, she softened a bit and told me to be more careful. I’ve been on edge all morning, stressing about asking to leave early today. I need to run out, grab a gift, and head to the café-bar—Vera sent me the address via email. I’m dreading bringing it up, though. I can already imagine her disapproval.
After cleaning the treatment room, I head to the reception area, where I always greet clients. I grab a damp cloth and wipe down the red leather couch. Kneeling on it, I reach up to clean the framed photos on the wall—cute cats and handsome purebred dogs. Back in high school, I used to dream of owning my own vet clinic, picturing myself treating poor animals while grateful owners thanked me for my help. Unfortunately, life’s harsher than it seems when you’re a kid. Only those who can afford it get to own a clinic. Victoria comes from a wealthy family; my parents are just regular working folks from a small town who barely scraped together enough for my education.
The front door opens behind me. Probably the clients with the dog who’s in for an unlucky day.
“Good afternoon,” I call out without turning around, finishing up wiping the frame of the last photo. “I’ll take you to the doctor in just a moment.”
“We’ve already met,” a quiet male voice says, making me turn around so fast I nearly fall off the couch.
Standing in the middle of the reception area is the rude driver who almost hit me this morning, holding a small black dog in his arms. Now I can get a good look at him. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with an athletic build. His hair is cropped short, his face is handsome but grim, and his eyes are drilling into me with an intense stare.
“What are you doing here, you road menace?” I ask sharply, scrambling off the couch and quickly smoothing out my dress. “And how did you even find me?”
The man raises his eyebrows in surprise and takes a step toward me.
“This is a vet clinic, in case you hadn’t noticed, and I’m here with a patient,” he scoffs, looking me up and down with a condescending air. “Why would I need to track you down? What for?”
I scowl at his unfriendly tone. What kind of day is this, running into him twice? I wish I’d never have to see him again.
“We work by appointment only. We can’t take you,” I hiss through gritted teeth. I just want him gone.
“This dog’s in bad shape. He might not make it,” he says, a hint of concern creeping into his voice.
I shift my focus to the dog. He’s lying motionless in the man’s arms. Forgetting about the jerk holding him, I step closer and touch the dog’s neck. He doesn’t react, but I can feel a faint pulse.
I rush to Victoria’s office and burst in without knocking. She hates that, and she shoots me an irritated look.
“They brought in a dachshund who’s barely alive. We need to do something right now,” I announce from the doorway.
“Bring him to the treatment room. I’m coming,” she replies curtly, removing her stylish narrow-framed glasses.
I return to the man, take the dog from him, and carry him to the treatment room, hearing the owner follow behind me.
“How long has he been like this? Has he had diarrhea or vomiting? What did he eat?” I fire off questions without turning around.
I enter the treatment room and lay the dog on the examination table.
“I don’t know,” the owner replies hesitantly.
I shoot him a disapproving look. That’s not an acceptable answer. He stands by the door like a dark cloud, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. He clearly feels out of place here, realizing this isn’t his territory and he’s not in control.
“How can you not know anything? Or did you hit him with your car too? Couldn’t get a girl, so you moved on to a dog?” I snap, feeling a surge of confidence and strength.
Owners like this always drive me up the wall. They get a pet for fun but don’t bother to take care of it.
“Good afternoon. Who do we have here?” Victoria enters the room, flashing a charming smile at the man as she approaches me.
Though she’s well into her thirties, men always follow her with admiring glances. Tall, slender, with shiny black hair cut short and neatly styled, she makes an impression even in a white lab coat. With her arrival, my confidence wavers, and I nervously start preparing the tools she’ll need.
“The owner doesn’t know a thing about the dog, like it’s not even his,” I tell Victoria, casting a sideways glance at the man, whose attention is now entirely on the stunning Victoria.
No surprise there. This guy’s no different from most men.
“It’s actually my sister’s dog, and she didn’t tell me much. Just that he’s been lethargic since last night,” he explains calmly to Victoria.
“You must be a great brother, helping your sister out like this. Saving her little dog,” she says with a flirtatious smile, while I just roll my eyes.
Victoria has a thing for handsome, striking men, even if they’re younger than her.
“She’s at work, and I had some free time,” he replies.
“We’ll help your dog now. What’s his name?”
“Sausage,” he says, looking a bit embarrassed.
I burst out laughing but quickly cover my face with my hand. His grim gaze lands on me. Victoria raises her eyes to him with interest.
“It’s my nephew’s dog. He named him,” he clarifies.
Victoria gets to work. When she’s focused, everything else disappears for her—it’s just her and the patient. In moments like this, I admire her dedication to her profession. She thoroughly examines the dachshund, palpating him and checking his pupils. I stand by her side, handing her whatever she needs, trying to help as much as I can. The man remains by the door, watching our every move. Sometimes I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t react. Why did he have to show up at *our* clinic of all places? His presence makes me uncomfortable and jittery.
“Your dog picked up a tick,” Victoria announces her diagnosis. “He’s having a severe reaction to the parasite.”
“Will he make it?” His question is short, but there’s tension in his voice. He must be worried about the dog, even if he doesn’t show it.
“We’ll give him a shot, remove this nasty thing, and I think he’ll be fine,” Victoria replies coolly.
She’s already started the procedure, her full attention on the dachshund.
“Luba, help me out,” she says to me, then turns to our guest. “You can wait in the reception area. We’ll bring your dog out to you.”
The man gives us one last look before hurrying out, leaving us to our important task.