Noah’s fingers, almost weightless, managed to brush against the thick fur of Max’s head. The movement was incredibly weak, a mere flutter, but it was real.
And then, Noah smiled. It wasn’t just a twitch; it was a real, perceptible smile. It was the first one anyone in that room had seen in days.
His mother, standing beside the crib, let out a choked gasp, her hand flying to her mouth as a fresh wave of tears streamed down her face.
The doctor standing next to her, a man trained for composure, had to turn his head away, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. Max didn’t bark. He didn’t whine or move.
He just stood there, his breathing slow and steady, his gaze locked on the little boy he had diligently protected since the very day he was brought home from the hospital.
For months, Max had been a silent, worried witness to Noah’s declining health. It had started with fevers, then progressed to long, draining stays in this very hospital.
When Noah was home but had become too weak to play or even lift his head, Max would curl up on the floor beside his crib. He’d rest his heavy head on the bottom edge, as if he was personally guarding the little one from all the world’s troubles.
But when the ambulance came on that final night, its lights painting the street in red and white, Max wasn’t allowed to follow. He had chased it, running as fast as he could down the street until it turned the corner and vanished.
He then went to the hospital and sat by the automatic glass doors for three long days, waiting…
