The automatic doors slid apart with a sigh, letting in a rush of rain and something heavier. It was an English mastiff, soaked to the bone, padding straight across the lobby. On his back, draped like a rag doll, was a small girl who couldn’t be more than six. Elena Ward froze. Everyone did. What they were seeing was impossible.
For a full second, the hospital forgot how to breathe. The dog’s paws left perfect, muddy ovals on the tiles. The girl’s hand hung limp against his shoulder, her hair plastered to his neck. The mastiff’s eyes scanned the chaos until they found Elena—steady, watchful, almost pleading. She moved first.
“Gurney! Now!” Her voice sliced through the quiet like a bell. Orderlies jumped into motion. The dog stopped when she did, lowering himself carefully, like he understood every word. Elena knelt, fingers trembling as she searched the child’s neck. Warm skin. Faint pulse. Thank God. “Let’s get her inside,” she whispered.