When Amy emerged, exhausted, she said, “She’s through it. The tumor is gone. But it was aggressive. We got what we could.”
“How long?”
“That’s months she wouldn’t have had otherwise.”
Madison’s address was on the collar tags. The neighborhood was worn-down but lived-in. I knocked on the front door just after dinner.
A man answered. His face paled when he saw me.
“Are you missing a dog?”
He shook. “Daisy? You found her?”
“She’s alive, recovering. Surgery went as well as it could.”
Inside, Madison appeared—small, hopeful.
“Are you the biker who found Daisy?”
Continue reading…
