He weighed just over a hundred pounds, a broad, muscular pit bull with a head that seemed almost too large for his body, his fur a patchwork of scars and roughened skin that told a story no one needed explained in detail. Some scars were thin and pale, others thick and jagged, crossing his shoulders and chest like old battle lines. One ear had a tear that never healed quite right, giving him a permanently uneven look. To someone who didn’t know better, he looked dangerous.
But the truth was, Titan moved with a kind of quiet patience that only came from surviving too much.
There was something else, too.
His back right leg trembled slightly whenever he stood still for too long, and if you watched closely, you could see the subtle shift in his posture, the careful way he avoided putting too much weight on it. Bone cancer, late stage. The vets had been honest—he didn’t have long. Weeks, maybe days.
That night was supposed to be his last visit.
Walter had brought him in to say goodbye to the staff who had come to love him, to let him do what he had always done best one final time—sit quietly with people who needed him. But as they passed Oliver’s room, Titan stopped.
