A biker discovered a Golden Retriever chained to an old bridge at 3 AM, with a note that read, “I can’t afford to put her down. Please don’t let her suffer.”

The surgery lasted hours. I waited in the lobby, clutching Madison’s note, picturing her crying for her dog. Her crayon drawings of defenders and angels swirled in my mind.

When Amy emerged, exhausted, she said, “She’s through it. The tumor is gone. But it was aggressive. We got what we could.”

“How long?”

“Maybe months. Maybe a year—if we’re lucky.”

“That’s months she wouldn’t have had otherwise.”