Blade's eyes narrow slightly. “You've got something more pressing?"
“Naw, brother. Let’s get it done. Lead the way."
Chapter3
Luna
I hurry down the sidewalk with Paco clutched against my chest. His breathing is coming in short, gasping honks that vibrate his tiny body, each one sending a spike of panic through me.
"Shh," I whisper as his little rib cage heaves with each labored breath. Abuela will be devastated if anything happens to her precious companion.
Paco releasesaharsh, honking cough, and I pick up my pace, checking street signs until I spot the Wraithport Animal Clinic—a small building with a painted paw print on the window and a sign promising "Compassionate Care for All Pets."
The bell above the door jingles as I enter. Inside, the waiting room is blessedly empty except for a young woman at the reception desk. The space smells of antiseptic and pet shampoo, with walls covered in posters about heartworm prevention and dental care. She looks up as I enter, her smile immediately faltering when she sees Paco's condition.
“My dog—he needs help," I say, my voice tight with worry. "He's having trouble breathing."
The receptionist's expression softens. "Let me get the vet tech. She can take a look right away."
I sink into a chair, gently stroking Paco’s head while my mind races through calculations I've already done a hundred times. Payday isn’t until Friday. We can live on beans and rice to stretch our budget.
“Hi there, I’m Sophie.” I look up to see a blonde woman in scrubs. “Come on back and let's see what's going on with this little one."
I follow her to an exam room, placing Paco on the metal table. The dog's eyes are glassy, and as I carefully unwrap him, he makes another honking gasp that seems to rattle his entire body.
"How long has he been breathing like this?" Sophie asks, running gentle hands over Paco’s tiny frame, her expression concerned but professional.
"It started a few days ago, but it's much worse today. He was up all night." My own voice sounds foreign to my ears, stretched thin with exhaustion and worry. “He's thirteen years old. My abuela has had him since he was a puppy. We brought him all the way from Oaxaca."
I bite my lip, wishing I hadn't mentioned our hometown. It's second nature to be guarded about anything that might reveal our status.
Sophie nods, listening to Paco’s chest with a stethoscope before taking his temperature. When she fits an oxygen mask over his tiny face, my heart clenches at the sight, and I press my hand to my mouth to stifle a sob.
What if I’m too late? What if I should have brought him in at the first sign of trouble, instead of hoping it would pass?
I try to read Sophie’s expression. "Is he?—?"
“I’m stabilizing him," Sophie says, her voice gentle but direct. "Paco has what we call tracheal collapse—it's fairly common in small breeds like Chihuahuas, especially as they age. His trachea—his windpipe—has weakened, and it's partially collapsing when he breathes, causing that honking sound."
"Can you fix it?"
"There are options. In mild cases, medication can help manage symptoms—anti-inflammatories, cough suppressants, sometimes bronchodilators. In severe cases, we might consider a stent, which is a surgical option."
My stomach drops. Surgery sounds expensive and the landlord's warning echoes in my mind—"One more late payment and you're out." But this little dog has been Abuela’s companion through everything—the brutal death of my parents, crossing the border, trying to settle in a new country… Through it all, Paco has been by her side—a tiny guardian with the heart of a lion.
Sophie continues, "Based on his age and the progression of symptoms, I recommend we start with the medication approach. We can give him an injection today to reduce the inflammation, then send you home with tablets. You'll need to be careful about using a harness instead of a collar, keeping him at a healthy weight, and avoiding situations that might trigger coughing."
I swallow hard. "How...how much will that cost?"
The sympathy in Sophie's eyes tells me everything before she speaks. "For the full treatment, including medication to take home, we're looking at around $400."
The room seems to tilt slightly. Vaguely I hear the door open behind me, but I pay it little mind, too rattled about the cost of treatment. Four hundred dollars might as well be four million. My hands begin to tremble.
“Um… Is there anything less expensive we can do?" I ask, hating how my voice cracks.
Sophie hesitates. “Well?—”
“Or would it be possible to make payments? Do you have any kind of payment plans?" I ask, desperately clinging to hope.
