Maria:
Milo doesn’t trust me.
He’s a tiny brown dog with too much energy packed into a small body, pacing in uneven circles on the examination table like he’s looking for an escape route that doesn’t exist.
“It’s fine,” I tell him softly, resting my hands on the edge of the table instead of reaching for him. “We don’t have to be friends today.”
He pauses. Watches me.
Still suspicious.
Fair.
“I wouldn’t trust me either,” I add under my breath.
The clinic smells faintly of antiseptic and dog shampoo, the hum of the overhead light steady and familiar. Outside, I can hear the receptionist laughing at something, the low murmur of a waiting client, the occasional bark cutting through everything.
It’s… quiet in the way that matters.
Contained.
Nothing here demands more than I can give.
