I’m not sure she knows she’s talking out loud. That she’s begging her dog not to die.

“I love you,” I hear her whisper, her voice choked with emotion. “Please don’t go. I need you.” She’s straining back, fighting against her seat belt to touch him, to be as close to him as she can while I fly over these streets. If I get pulled over, I’m going to keep driving.

Sentinel is going to die if I stop.

I pull out my phone, needing to make sure I have what I need on hand. “Bring Jax,” I tell Sam, who agrees to quickly get my dog. “Thanks,” I say, glad for the billionth time at least that I live so close to the office, that I have a key where Sam knows to find it.

Jax is strong. He’ll be perfect for a transfusion.

Next to me, the girl begins to mumble about how he used to trip on his ears as a puppy. I sense she’s not fully aware she’s speaking out loud, and I stay quiet. Her words break my heart. The German Shepard must have been a particularly adorable puppy, but it’s the love in her voice that’s wrecking me.

She’s droning on about how he’s the best friend she could have ever hoped for and I know she’s looking for closure. She wants to get it all out so he can hear how much she loves him before he slips away.

“Please don’t go,” She whispers, and I blink back tears. Bloody hell, if he dies now, I’ll never forgive myself. Not because she’s anything special, but because I know the dog is.

“I’m right here,” She assures him as we pull into the office lot.

I park quickly and jump out of the car. Headed to the back, I reach under the giant dog. Sam comes rushing out with a carry stretcher and I thank god for her again. She’s the best damn assistant I could have ever hoped for.

Sam comes to my side and I position the stretcher as Sam hurries around the car. She’s quick and we count.

“One, two three.” In unison and lift Sentinel in tandem onto it. With one side in my hands, I slide him out and the girl takes one side and I hold the other. We’re quick to rush the Shepard indoors toward the room I know Sam would have prepped for surgery.

I rush past the reception desk and down the hall. On the right, we bump into the room that’s already ready. I place the stretcher on the ground and look into the girl’s eyes.

She scoops up his haunches and leads the count. “One, two, three.”

We lift him and place him on the stainless steel table. Sam is quick to bring in Jax as I set up to anesthetize Sentinel. While she’s working on him, she’s talking to the girl.

“Were going to put Sentinel under so we can get a transfusion going,” she says, knowing her stuff. “What’s your name?” she asks, and I listen up.

“Victoria,” The blond says. She jerks her chin toward the dog on the table. “He’s Sentinel.”

“Pretty,” Sam says. “I’m Sam, this is Kyle. He’s really not so bad once you get to know him.”

I glare at her, and she shrugs before focusing back on the task at hand. I tune them out, prepping Sentinel. I’m praying to every god I’ve ever heard of that this goes well. I feel broken ribs, but I know the dog isn’t too old, the bones should mend quick. I’m hoping none pierced his lungs. If they did, this is going to get much harder.

Sam works around me, setting up the transfusion. Jax sits patiently, having done this before. I offer him praise and he stops panting long enough to give me the look. The look that reminds me I own him treats and an extra walk after we’re done here.

And he’ll get treats, but have to wait a bit for the walk. This is going to be a big transfusion. I’m playing with two lives, Jax’s and Sentinel’s. As Sentinel gives up to the anesthetic, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s a double edged sword, though. He went down quick, that’s a bad sign.

I find the source of the bleeding, a huge gash along his left side, likely where something sharp on the bumper slashed him. I shave the edges in record time, aware of every precious second ticking by with him bleeding.

To her credit, Victoria is watching, silent. Her presence is unobtrusive, which is abnormal for people watching their dog die.

I stitch him up with Sam hurrying to snip the threads and dab up blood. Twenty two stitches later, we’re done and there’s far less blood flowing from the wound. I probe the ribs, wondering if we should X-ray. I know two are broken, I feel them. But they can be manipulated back into place. His breathing isn’t labored, which leads me to believe his lungs weren’t punctured.

“We need to get Jax off the transfusion,” Sam says, her focus on cleaning up Sentinel.

“A little longer,” I say, hoping that I’m not asking too much of Jax.

“You’re going to kill him,” Sam says, her tone urgent and terrified.

“Trust me,” I tell her. I know we’re cutting it close. But Sentinel needs all the blood he can get.

“Don’t trade one life for another,” Sam says, her tone admonishing. I look into her eyes, wondering when she’d gotten so old. Sure, I knew she was in her forties, but she’s never looked her age. Until now.

“Just a little bit longer,” I say, looking over at my dog. Jax is resting, head between his front paws. His big blue eyes are on me and I know he’d follow me to the ends of the earth. He’d die if I let him.

Even now, as he gets weaker and weaker, his lifeblood saving the life of another, he trusts me.