Clara felt the air leaving her chest.
For a second he remained motionless, staring at the poorly closed kennel door as if his mind refused to accept what he saw.
Then he reacted.
—Luna? —he called softly, almost reflexively.
There was no response.
Only the old hum of the hallway lights and the distant echo of other dogs moving behind the bars.
He ducked down immediately.
On the floor, on the cold tiles, he noticed damp marks.
Footprints.
Small.
Recent.
He looked up and followed them, his heart pounding in his ribs.
They weren’t heading towards the main exit.
They weren’t going to the playground.
They went to the back of the shelter.
Towards the area they almost never used at that time.
Clara walked quickly, holding her breath.
Each step stirred something inside him.
Luna was not a restless dog.
I didn’t know how to open doors.
I wouldn’t have run away out of mere curiosity.
Something had happened.
As he turned the last corridor, he heard a sound.
It wasn’t a bark.
It was a low moan.
Intermittent.
And he was coming from the quarantine room.
Clara pushed the door open carefully.
The room was dark, except for a line of light filtering in from the small high window.
It took him a second to see her.
Luna was huddled in a corner, pressed against an overturned transport cage.
His body was tense.
Ears erect.
And in front of its front paws, trembling on the ground, was a tiny, dirty puppy, its fur matted and barely able to stand.
Clara opened her eyes.
-My God…
