By the time Amelia reached her driveway, she knew three things.
First, the Labrador had eaten something.
Second, nobody knew exactly what it was.
Third, the object was probably not going to kill him.
Probably.
That was the word that followed her home.
It sat beside her in the car while she drove through the last amber lights of the evening. It came through the front gate with her, waited while she found the house key, and slipped inside before she did. It had followed her from the clinic without a lead, without permission, and without making a sound.
Probably.
The dog, a broad-headed yellow Labrador named Murphy, had arrived two hours before closing with the grave dignity of an animal who had done something foolish and was prepared to deny it to the end. His owner had found him near the laundry basket, licking his lips beside a crime scene made up of shredded cardboard, half a chewed zip tie, and the suspicious absence of something that may once have belonged to a child’s school project.
There had been no vomiting. No distress. No abdominal pain worth the name. Murphy had wagged at everyone, accepted palpation as though it were a compliment, and looked delighted when someone said the word food, which was both reassuring and entirely on brand.
The radiographs had shown nothing obvious.
The timeline was plausible.
The risk was low.
The uncertainty was not.
And uncertainty, she had learned, was one of the most persistent kinds of patient…
