Part 5
Claire placed her hand against the outside of the enclosure.
Scout’s paw stopped inches away, separated from her by clear plastic. It rested there while the oxygen flowed around him.
“Save your strength,” she whispered.
The fever began to fall shortly before dawn.
By morning, his breathing remained fast but no longer worsened. His oxygen requirement decreased in small increments, and the next X-ray showed that the pneumonia had stopped spreading.
Dr. Ortiz looked more exhausted than any of them. She had gone home for three hours and returned with her hair still damp from a shower.
“This is the first morning I’m more encouraged than worried,” she told them.
Claire almost asked for a guarantee. Instead, she said, “What happens next?”
“We keep treating the infection. We make sure he can swallow safely. Then we help him relearn how to use muscles that haven’t worked for several days.”
Scout stayed in the oxygen enclosure for another night. A feeding tube delivered small amounts of liquid nutrition while the technicians repositioned him every few hours and massaged his legs.
Ethan volunteered for the midnight visit while Claire slept in the family room down the hall.
He sat beside Scout with one hand inside the access port. The puppy was awake, though his eyes remained heavy.
“I owe you an apology,” Ethan said.
Scout’s ear flicked.
“I thought letting you go was the kind thing. Maybe it would’ve been, based on what we knew. I don’t know anymore.”
He rubbed the fur between Scout’s eyes.
“I need you to understand something, even though you’re a dog and this speech is probably wasted on you. I wasn’t tired of fighting for you. I was afraid I’d keep you here because I couldn’t stand being the person who let you go.”
Claire had awakened and stopped outside the doorway. Ethan did not see her.
“You trusted me to make the hard choice,” he continued. “I just wish the hard choice had come with better instructions.”
Scout’s front paw shifted beneath the blanket and touched Ethan’s wrist.
Ethan bowed his head.
Claire stepped into the room.
He looked up, embarrassed. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough.”
“I was talking to the dog.”
“I noticed.”
“He’s less judgmental.”
She sat beside him. For a moment, they watched Scout breathe.
“I blamed you because I needed somebody to be wrong,” Claire said. “If you were wrong, then maybe I hadn’t agreed with you.”
“You were trying to protect him.”
“So were you.”
Ethan turned his hand beneath Scout’s paw and held it gently.
The following afternoon, Scout passed a swallow test. He lapped three teaspoons of thickened water without coughing, then ate a tiny piece of boiled chicken from a technician’s fingers.
His tail moved once against the blanket.
By then, the pneumonia was receding. The oxygen enclosure was left open for longer periods, then switched off entirely. Scout could sit if someone supported his hips, but his back legs folded beneath him whenever the support was removed.
A rehabilitation technician named Marcy brought a wide canvas sling.
“We’re not asking him to walk,” she explained. “We’re reminding his nervous system what standing feels like.”
They lifted Scout onto a rubber mat. Claire supported his chest while Marcy held the sling beneath his belly. Ethan crouched several feet away with a piece of chicken.
Scout planted his front paws.
His back feet dragged, then corrected. One slid forward.
“Good,” Marcy said. “Let him find the floor.”
Scout’s legs trembled violently. Claire felt the effort through the sling.
“That’s enough,” she said.
“Give him another second.”
Scout looked at Ethan.
“Come on, buddy,” Ethan said. “You’ve crossed the entire kitchen for a dropped noodle. This is better than a noodle.”
Scout shifted his weight.
One back leg straightened.
Then the other.
For two seconds, he stood on all four feet.
He collapsed into Claire’s hands, panting, but his tail struck the mat twice.
They repeated the exercise later that day. The next morning, Scout managed one step. By evening, he managed three.
On the fifth day after the tick was removed, Dr. Ortiz found Claire and Ethan beside the rehabilitation mat.
“His lungs are clear enough that I’m comfortable sending him home soon,” she said. “He’s eating, breathing normally, and his strength is returning.”
Claire looked at Scout, who was asleep with his nose on Ethan’s shoe.
“How soon?”
“Tomorrow, if he can show us he can walk a short distance with minimal support.”
Ethan smiled. “How short?”
“From the rehabilitation room to the end of the hall.”
“That’s about thirty feet.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“To him, that’s a marathon.”
Dr. Ortiz crouched beside Scout. “Then he should rest tonight.”
At nine the next morning, Claire and Ethan waited at the far end of the hallway. The red leash hung from Ethan’s hand, but the collar remained in his pocket.
The double doors opened.
Marcy appeared first, holding the sling loosely beneath Scout’s belly.
Behind her, Scout stood with his feet planted wide, staring down twenty-eight feet of polished floor…
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