I always joked that my labrador, Crover, was more of a shadow than a dog. No matter where I went—kitchen, shower, even awkward first dates—he followed like he’d signed a loyalty contract I never asked for.
But this time, when I opened my eyes to that sharp, antiseptic light and stiff hospital sheets, he was already there. Lying beside me. Head on my hip. Like he had been waiting for me.
I blinked hard, once, twice. My mouth felt like chalk. I tried to sit up, but my body dragged like dead weight. Tubes. Beeping. A dull ache I couldn’t place, like something had been pulled from me—or maybe put in.
“Crover?” My voice cracked. He didn’t move.
A nurse walked in—young, jittery, ponytail too tight. She froze when she saw him. “Oh my god… how did he get in here?”
