The visit was supposed to last ten minutes. That was the rule. But when the clock ran out and the handler called him, Milo didn’t move. He stood by Lily’s bedside, muscles tight, eyes fixed on her chest. When a nurse tugged his leash gently, he let out a low growl.
The sound wasn’t loud, but it rippled through the room. The other children’s laughter outside stopped. “Easy, boy,” someone murmured, stepping closer. Milo’s lips curled slightly—not in anger, Maya thought, but in warning. His eyes never left Lily, who sat frozen, pale and still, her small hand gripping the blanket.
When the handler finally pulled him away, Milo resisted until the last possible second, trembling all over. He whined once, sharp and mournful, before disappearing down the hallway. That night, Lily’s heart monitor blipped unevenly. A nurse noticed and adjusted her medication, whispering later that maybe the dog had known.