Bright fluorescent lights hit like a slap. The vet, gray‑bearded and still zipping up a jacket over scrubs, took one look and called, “Trauma table, oxygen kit, let’s move.” Two techs wheeled a metal cart. Noemi laid the slippery bundle down, fingers refusing to let go until the vet gently pried them away.
They sliced away the tarp, cut the net, and started rinsing black sludge with warm saline. The pup lay still, sides barely lifting. A monitor beeped irregularly. “Pulse forty‑two and falling,” one tech muttered. The vet fitted a tiny mask over the muzzle. Noemi hovered near the sink, feeling useless, coated in oil, shivering hard. She opened her mouth twice, no words came.