I picked up the pen. My hand was shaking so violently I could barely hold it. A tear slipped down my cheek, splashing onto the sterile paper. I was going to kill my absolute best friend in the world simply because I was poor.
“What’s going on out here, Brenda?”
A man in dark blue surgical scrubs stepped into the reception area. He was tall, maybe in his late thirties, with the exhausted, sharp eyes of a lead surgeon. He wore a laminated badge that read *Dr. David Aris, Chief of Surgery*.
“The owner cannot afford the GDV surgery for the terrier mix in Bay 4,” the manager explained flatly. “I’m having him sign the release forms now.”
Dr. Aris looked at the clipboard, then looked at me.
He froze. The irritation in his posture vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by a profound, trembling stillness. All the color drained from his face.
“Mr. Henderson?” he asked, his voice suddenly very quiet.
I looked up, wiping my eyes, confused. “Do I know you, Doctor?”
He didn’t answer the manager. He walked around the reception counter, ignoring her completely, and knelt right in front of my plastic chair. He looked at my worn work boots, then up at my face.
He had only $412 left—and the vet
