"Somebody help me!" I screamed. I kicked the glass door of the clinic wide open.

The door rebounded and clipped my shoulder. I ignored the sting and dragged the blanket across the linoleum.

A woman in blue scrubs bolted from behind the reception desk. "Get a gurney!" she yelled over her shoulder.

"He can't stand," I gasped. "He's seizing."

"Lift on three," a male vet said. He appeared beside us and grabbed the front corners of the blanket. "One, two, three."

They hoisted Buddy onto the stainless-steel examination table. The metal rang beneath his weight, and a weak, rattling whine escaped him.

"What is his name?" the vet asked. He pulled a penlight from his pocket and shined it into Buddy's cloudy eyes.

"Buddy. He's fourteen."

"Any underlying conditions?"

"Arthritis," I answered quickly. "But tonight he just collapsed. His hind legs stopped working."

The vet pressed a stethoscope to the dog's ribs. Silence stretched for ten agonizing seconds. The only sound in the room was the hum of the fluorescent lights.

"His heart rate is plummeting," the vet said. He dropped the stethoscope around his neck. "His pupils aren't responding."

"Fix him," I said. "Give him fluids. Operate. Do anything."

The vet shook his head. "His organs are shutting down. I'm so sorry."

"Are you sure?"

"There's nothing we can do to reverse this."

"How much time does he have?" I asked.

"Minutes," the vet replied gently. "He's suffering."

"Do it," I whispered. "Stop the pain."

"I need you to sign this consent form first," the receptionist said. She slid a clipboard onto the edge of the steel table.

I took the pen, my hand shaking as I scrawled my name across the bottom line.

The nurse shaved a small patch of fur on Buddy's front leg. The vet uncapped a syringe filled with bright pink liquid.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Wait," I said.

I leaned over the table. I pressed my cheek against Buddy's gray forehead. His fur smelled like old leaves and dust.

"You're a good boy," I murmured into his ear. "You can sleep now."

"I'm giving the injection now," the vet said softly.

The plunger went down. I kept my face buried in his fur. The erratic thumping against my palms slowed, stuttered, and vanished. The heart monitor hummed a single continuous tone.

"He's gone," the vet said.

I stood before the unbroken line on the screen.

I didn't reach for my phone. I didn't call Mark or text Aiden. It sat silent in my pocket while sixteen years of marriage—and the mother I had been for fifteen years—ended at that monitor.

A dry, hacking laugh escaped my throat. The sound echoed off the tile walls, startling the nurse.

"Ma'am?" she asked, stepping back.

"I'm fine." I wiped my dry eyes. "Please arrange a private cremation. I'll wait."

"Do you want a moment alone with him?" the vet asked.

"No. He isn't in there anymore."

I walked out of the examination room. I sat on a cracked vinyl bench in the waiting area. A clock ticked above the reception desk.

"The overnight technician is here," the receptionist said from behind the partition. "It will take about ninety minutes."

"I'll wait," I replied.

"Are you waiting on a ride, ma'am?"

"No. I drove myself."

"It's just you tonight?"

"Yes. Just me."

My phone vibrated against my thigh. I pulled it out. A social media notification flashed across the locked screen. Sarah, a neighbor from two streets over, had tagged Mark in a post.

I tapped the alert. The screen loaded a brightly lit photograph.

Mark stood in the center of a crowded auditorium lobby. His arm wrapped tightly around Chloe's waist. On his other side stood Aiden, wearing his varsity hockey jacket, grinning widely. Chloe's daughter, Lily, stood in front of them, holding a towering gold dance trophy.

They all beamed at the camera.

I read the caption beneath the photo.

"So glad I ran into these guys! Perfect family night celebrating Lily's big win!"

My thumb hovered over the image. Mark had refused to leave the recital. Aiden had claimed he was at a post-game party with his teammates.

"You're embarrassing me in front of the guys," Aiden had said on the phone.

"Do you have to ruin the mood right now?" Mark had hissed.

They were together. Playing house with another woman while I dragged our dying dog across the concrete driveway.

"Perfect family night," I read aloud.

I pressed the power button, and the screen went black. My jaw clenched until my teeth ached. No tears came. There was only a cold, hollow space where my family had been.

I opened my messages. I selected the group chat containing Mark and Aiden.

I typed three words: "Buddy is dead."

I hit send. I blocked both of their numbers.

Footsteps approached. The nurse from the examination room stopped in front of the bench.

"Mrs. Evans?" she asked softly.

"Yes," I replied. I stood up.

She held out a smooth wooden urn. On top rested a clear bag containing Buddy's faded red collar and his rabies tag.

"He's ready to go home," she said.

I took the urn. The wood felt icy against my palms. "Thank you."

"Take all the time you need," she offered. She pointed toward the exit. "The front doors lock automatically, but you can push them open from the inside."

"I'm leaving now."

I turned toward the exit. I tucked the plastic bag into my coat pocket and gripped the wooden box with both hands.

The glass doors burst open.

The metal frames slammed against the brick walls. A tall man in a canvas work jacket—ADAM stitched above the pocket—charged into the lobby. His boots pounded the linoleum, and blood soaked the front of his shirt.

In his arms, he carried a large, mangled black dog.

"Doctor, save him!" the man roared, his voice echoing through the quiet clinic.

"Tie it above the wound," I ordered.

I shoved the blue medical tourniquet into the man's bloody palm.

He snatched the rubber strap. He wrapped it tight around the black dog's thigh. "Thank you," he grunted, pressing his entire body weight against the gash. "Hold on, buddy. Just hold on."

"Get a gurney out here!" the receptionist yelled. She sprinted from behind the glass partition, her sneakers squeaking against the wet floor.

"He's losing too much blood." The man's hands shook. "I found him on the side of the highway. Someone hit him and just kept driving."

"Keep the pressure steady," I told him. "Don't let up for a second. If you loosen it, he bleeds out."

"I have it," he said. He locked his eyes onto mine. His gaze was frantic but grateful. "Are you a vet?"

"No." The word came out hollow. "I just know how quickly they can slip away."

The vet pushed through the swinging doors. He took one look at the pool of dark red spreading across the linoleum. "Bring him into room two. Now."

"I have him," the man said, lifting the animal. "I have you, I promise."

"Sir, you can't go back there," the receptionist warned.

"Try and stop me," he fired back, kicking the swinging door open with his heavy work boot.

When they disappeared down the hallway, I retrieved the wooden urn from the vinyl bench. I walked out the front doors into the freezing wind.

Two hours later, I pushed my front door open.

The house sat in total darkness.

"I'm home," I said out loud.

No clicking nails on the hardwood. No tail thumping against the baseboards. Just silence.

I flicked the entryway switch. The overhead light illuminated the empty orthopedic dog bed tucked under the console table. Faded golden hair clung to the gray fabric.

I passed the living room without stopping. I marched straight down the hallway into Mark's home office. I unlocked the bottom drawer of his mahogany desk.

I pulled out the manila envelope. I had printed the documents six months ago, right after I found the first hotel receipt in Mark's coat pocket.

I slid the crisp white pages out.

"Petition for Dissolution of Marriage," I read aloud.

I grabbed a pen from the desk caddy. I signed my name on the bottom line. The ink bled slightly into the paper.

My phone rang in my jacket pocket. It was an unknown number, but the local area code gave it away. Mark using someone else's phone.

I answered it. "Speak."

"What kind of sick joke is this?" Mark demanded. His voice echoed slightly, like he was standing in a parking garage.

"Buddy is dead," I said flatly.

"You're lying to punish me for not leaving the recital," he snapped.

"Aiden is furious," Mark spat through the receiver. "You don't just invent a dead dog to guilt-trip us."

"I'm not inventing anything," I said, hollow.

"Put Mom on speaker," Aiden's voice echoed in the background.

"She's on speaker," Mark said.

"Mom, this is psycho behavior," Aiden groaned. "You're literally trying to ruin my night because you're mad Dad went to Lily's recital."

"Buddy had a seizure," I said. "His organs failed. He's in a wooden box on the passenger seat of my car."

"Right," Mark scoffed. "And the vet handed you his ashes in the middle of the night? Stop lying, Kate. I'm pulling into the driveway. We're going to have a serious talk about your behavior tonight."

A car door slammed outside.

"I'll see you in a minute," Mark warned.

The line clicked dead.

I dropped the phone onto the desk. I grabbed the manila envelope and my duffel bag.

The front door unlocked. A metallic scrape echoed through the hall.

"Are you sure she's asleep?" Chloe giggled, her voice loud in the quiet house.

"Kate goes to bed at nine," Mark said. "She's probably pouting in the guest room. Just keep quiet."

"I want to see the master bedroom," Chloe whined playfully.

"Tomorrow," Mark promised. "Let me go deal with my crazy wife first."

I stood motionless in the dark office. My heart didn't race; my hands didn't shake. The trophy photo and the unbroken line on the monitor had burned away any desire to fight.

I turned my back to the hallway. I slipped through the kitchen and pushed the side door open. The hinges stayed silent. I stepped into the freezing backyard.

Gravel crunched under my sneakers as I reached the driveway, heading straight for my old SUV parked behind the overgrown hedges. It sat hidden from the front porch.

I popped the trunk, shoving the duffel bag and the envelope inside.

I climbed into the driver's seat and turned the ignition. The engine roared to life, a loud rumble cutting through the quiet suburban street.

I threw the gearshift into reverse, backing out onto the street.

I slammed my foot on the gas. The tires screeched against the asphalt.

"Hey!" a voice shouted from the porch. Mark stood under the yellow porch light, his eyes wide.

Without looking back, I followed the dark road through the headlights. In the rearview mirror, the lights of the house dwindled and disappeared.

My phone lit up the center console. The screen flashed a new incoming call. Mark's actual number.

I tapped the red icon. I opened the settings menu, navigated to the family sharing tab, and deleted my profile. The GPS tracker went dark.

The phone buzzed again. A text from Aiden.

"Where are you going? Dad is freaking out."

"None of your business," I whispered to the empty car.

I blocked both numbers. I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat next to the wooden urn.

At two in the morning, the flickering neon sign of a roadside motel washed the windshield red. I drove past it. I wasn't ready to stop.