The back door swung open, and Dr. Sato came in with his usual quiet presence, coat hanging off one arm, a travel mug in the other. He was older, a veterinarian who could look at a dog’s gait and tell you three things that were wrong without touching it. He’d taught me more than half of what I knew, and the other half I’d learned by watching him.
He nodded at me. “Thomas.”
“Sato,” I replied automatically, because that was our thing. Two syllables with respect built into the routine.
He set his mug down, eyes scanning me in a way that always made me feel like a case study. “You’re still here.”
“I’m not leaving until tomorrow.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
I swallowed. “I wanted to say goodbye properly.”
He studied me for a beat, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, worn notebook. The notebook that had lived in his pocket for years.
He held it out. “Your first year here, you asked me how I remembered every case.”
I blinked. “You said you didn’t. You said you’d created a system that worked for you.”
“And you looked offended,” he said, deadpan. “Because I’d insulted what you’d learned in school.”
That earned a tiny smile from me.
He tapped the notebook. “I started keeping notes. Not for medicine, exactly. For people.”
I took it with careful hands. The cover was soft from use, the edges curled. I flipped it open and saw his handwriting. Names. Dog breeds. Little reminders.
Mrs. Larkin: terrified of putting her poodle under. Walk her through every step.
Baxter: hates men in hats.
My throat tightened.
“I’m not sure you realize,” Dr. Sato said, voice lower now, “how rare it is to be a good vet and kind as well.”
I stared at him because I didn’t trust my voice. And because praise from him felt like someone handing me the Holy Grail.
He nodded once, as if that was the whole speech. “Montana will be lucky.”
“Or… very overwhelmed,” I managed.
He smiled. Kinda. “Both things can be true.”
Gina cleared her throat loudly from the treatment area, which was her way of giving me an escape hatch from getting sentimental. I took it.
“First appointment’s here,” she called.
I exhaled and went into vet mode, because vet mode was what I knew.
The owner was a young man with tired eyes and a shepherd mix that looked nervous.
“This is Ranger,” the man said, rubbing the dog’s ears, trying to smooth the worry out of him. “He’s… not himself.”
Ranger leaned into my hand when I knelt, pressing his forehead into my palm.
It hit me, right there on the tile floor: this was the part that hurt. Not Denver, the city. It was just a place. Not the apartment. Not even the job.
It was the quiet trust in an animal’s body. The unspoken, simple belief that I would help.
