She slammed a fist on the glass door. An attendant—teenager, startled—looked up from a phone and stared wide‑eyed. When she saw the bundle in Noemi’s arms, she unlocked the door without a word and yelled for the doctor.
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.