The clinic was a blur of fluorescent lights and shouting. As soon as they burst through the doors, a team of technicians met them with a gurney. John and Fiona were ushered into the small, sterile waiting room, the heavy double doors of the ER swinging shut behind the kittens. The silence that followed was deafening. They sat on the plastic chairs, their coats still dripping meltwater onto the floor, staring at the clock on the wall.
Through the small window in the door, they could see the staff moving with frantic precision. Someone was on a headset, barking coordinates to a regional animal rescue unit, while another technician wheeled in a pressurized tank. The air in the waiting room felt mocking in its warmth and stillness. Fiona gripped John’s hand so hard her knuckles turned white. They had done everything they could—risked their lives on the ice and fought the very elements—and now they were reduced to spectators. All they could do was watch the muffled chaos of the ER and pray that the kittens they had rescued weren’t about to vanish for good.