“He was eating,” she whispered. “He was sleeping in the window. He yelled at me for tuna yesterday.”
The doctor gave the saddest little nod.
“Cats are masters at hiding pain. Especially old ones.”
Mac stepped forward.
“What can you do?”
The doctor folded his hands.
“There are options. We can operate and try to remove the mass. We can start aggressive treatment. We can hospitalize him, stabilize the kidneys, manage the heart as best we can, and see if he responds.”
“And?” Mac asked.
“And even if everything goes perfectly, we may only be buying him a little more time.”
“How much time?”
The doctor hesitated.
“A few months, maybe. A year, if he surprises us. But the surgery would be hard on him. Recovery would be painful. There are risks he may not survive the procedure at all.”
Sarah felt the room sway.
Mac looked like he was already preparing to fight someone.
“How much?”
The doctor named a number.
It was the kind of number that made ordinary people sit down.
Sarah did not sit down.
Because she and Mac both knew the money existed.
Years earlier, when Noah’s lemonade stand had turned into something bigger than grief, part of the fundraising had been placed in a protected account for one purpose only.
General Sherman’s care.
Noah’s last mission.
Nobody had touched it except for food, medication, checkups, and the special cushion by the window that Mac himself had delivered in the back of his truck with a big red bow tied around it.
The money was there.
That was not the problem.
The problem was the doctor’s face.
The problem was that he was not offering rescue.
He was offering time.
And pain.
And a chance.
Sometimes a chance was a blessing.
Sometimes it was a trap for people who loved too hard to let go.
“When do we have to decide?” Sarah asked.
The doctor looked toward the treatment area.
“He’s resting right now. I can keep him comfortable for the afternoon. But not long. We should talk again before evening.”
Sarah nodded because she did not trust her voice.
The doctor touched her arm once, lightly, then left them alone.
Mac turned to her immediately.
“We do it.”
Sarah looked up.
“What?”
“We do the surgery. We do the treatment. We do everything.”
His voice was fierce now.
Certain.
“He’s Noah’s cat.”
Sarah stared at him.
Mac pointed toward the treatment room.
“Noah sat in the sun and sold lemonade to save that old boy. The kid didn’t do all that so we could stop when it gets hard.”
Sarah flinched like he had struck her.
Mac saw it instantly.
His face changed.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
She pressed both hands against the blanket.
“He is Noah’s cat. That’s exactly why I can’t answer this like it’s simple.”
Mac dragged a hand down his beard.
“It is simple.”
“No,” Sarah said, and now her voice came out sharper than she intended. “It isn’t.”
Mac stared at her.
For a second, neither of them seemed to recognize the other.
They had buried a child together.
Built a fund together.
Kept a promise together.
But grief had a way of making even good people stand on opposite sides of the same love.
“You think letting him go is what Noah would want?” Mac said quietly.
Sarah swallowed.
“I think Noah would want Sherman protected. Not tortured because I’m scared.”
Mac looked away first.
That hurt more than if he had yelled.
He went to the vending machine, fed in a few bills with thick fingers, and bought two bottled waters neither of them opened.
Then he stood by the window and stared out at the parking lot.
The sky had gone flat and white with summer heat.
A dragonfly hovered over a patch of weeds by the curb.
Sarah hated the sight of it.
How dare anything small and alive still drift around in sunlight like the world had not tilted.
Her phone vibrated in her purse.
Then again.
Then again.
She ignored it until the fifth time.
When she finally looked, it was not one person.
It was many.
Club members.
Friends.
People checking in.
People asking if the annual lemonade fundraiser was still happening that evening.
People asking whether Sherman was alright.
One message stood apart.
It was from Kira.
Kira handled the paperwork side of the General Sherman Pet Legacy Fund now.
She had once been the club’s only accountant by trade and the most feared woman at any trail repair day because she could silence ten grown men with one look if they messed up her spreadsheets or her grill.
Her message was short.
Emergency application. Need decision today. I’m at your house.
Sarah stared at the screen.
Mac noticed.
“What?”
She handed him the phone.
He read it.
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