A tech guided her to a chair and pressed a mug of too‑hot tea into her shaking hands. Steam rose, carrying the bitter scent of burnt leaves. She couldn’t taste it. Over the clang of instruments she heard Dr. Alvarez again: “Breath sounds shallow…”
“What is it?” she managed, voice cracking. “Still cleaning him up,” Alvarez said, eyes on his work. “Wolf pup. Six, maybe seven weeks.” He paused, fingers gentle as he cleared sludge from a tiny ear. “Not good odds if oil got into the lungs.”