The first time I smashed a car window to save a dog, I was nineteen years old and still in training.

I remember how badly my hands shook afterward.

Not from the glass.
Not from the adrenaline.
From the dog.

A black Labrador curled on the floorboard of an old pickup truck in July heat, barely breathing while strangers stood around saying things like:

“I think the owner just ran inside.”
“It probably hasn’t been that long.”
“Dogs are tougher than …