Romulus—the dog that smelled of sun-baked fur and dirt,ten years pressed into the seams of his chest. He carried him through the glass doors,yelling something half-formed to the receptionist,“he’s in pain—just…”and the words dissolved into the silence of strangerswho already knew. Romulus on the cold stainless table,eyes too wide, whites swallowing the brown,staring at him…

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