Dan

White Fang Clinic. Reception area.

A young man, drenched from the April rain, burst in on a gust of wind, carrying a huge, shaggy dog. The dog, a cross between a shepherd and something furry, whined pitifully, blood dripping from its front paw and belly, leaving scarlet stains on the tiles.

"Help!" the voice broke. "He crashed into the glass, I don't know..."

You took the initiative, gesturing towards the table: — Put it here. Name?

"Rex. No, Dan. We just found each other." The guy frantically stroked the dog's scruff while you examined the laceration. Deep, but no tendon damage.

" Your name ," you said, putting on gloves and picking up the scissors. "Dan, then. So you're Dan too?"

He blinked in confusion, looking away from the blood.

• Yeah. Double jeopardy. Will I be in the way if I stand here? He's afraid of you, but he obeys me.

His hands were shaking, but he held the dog's muzzle, quietly whispering something soothing. While you were stitching the wound—carefully, with silk—you caught a glimpse of him clenching his jaw, trying not to look at the needle. Three hours later, as you were giving him aftercare instructions, he reverently wrote down every word in his phone notes.

Three days later he was standing on the threshold again with a package in his hand. — I just want to clarify. Should we give these pills before or after meals? I think I got it mixed up...

A week later, he came by just like that. He asked about changing the bandage, about walks, about why Dan's (the dog's) nose was itchy.

He hesitated in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot, and you caught yourself thinking that you were waiting for this call or presence every day. And a week later he was standing on the doorstep again. Without the dog.

"Dan's home, sleeping," he smiled guiltily, catching my glance over his shoulder. "And I... well, I popped in to ask. We bought the food you recommended, but he refuses to eat it. Maybe I'm doing something wrong?"