14

I’m five minutes late when I arrive at Hillary Maxwell’s veterinary clinic.

The double and glazed doors emit a small dye when opened, overlooking the extensive and varied shelves of toys and pet food. There is little movement in the store, with the exception of one or another customer passing by me with bags full of rations.

I approach the counter where Hillary is, and even irritated by my delay, I allow me to correspond to her friendly smile.

"How's life going, Suzy?”

Impatiently troubled, the irritable little voice inside my head responds first.

"Well, what about you, Lary?”

“Yeah... It could be better "she still has a smile on her face, but he doesn't reach her eyes. My heart almost splits in two. "Your order is in the warehouse, child.”

The deposit is at the back of the land, connected by a passage with a glass vaulted ceiling and flanked by the smell of freshly cut grass "where dogs and cats walk with employees dressed in white, in order to exercise their injured paws.

The said d