“It’s okay,” I said softly, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounded. “You did good. Let us help her.”
For a long second, the animal stared straight into my eyes, calculating, weighing something deeper than instinct, and then, with a sound that still haunts me, a broken whine that carried more fear than aggression, he stepped aside and collapsed to the floor.
“Code Blue, pediatric,” I shouted. “Get a gurney, now.”
We moved fast. The girl was cold, dangerously so, lips tinged blue, pulse faint but present, and as we lifted her, the dog forced himself upright again despite a visible limp, staying pressed against the gurney as if terrified we might disappear.
“You’re bleeding,” Allison said, pointing at the dog.
I followed her gaze and felt my stomach drop. Blood soaked his left shoulder, dark against wet fur.
“He stays,” I said when Frank protested. “I don’t care what policy says.”