That was when Titan broke free from the neighbor holding his collar. In one fluid motion, he sprinted behind the ambulance and positioned himself directly in the narrow space between the rear bumper and the street. He did not bark. He did not growl. He simply sat down, squarely blocking the vehicle.
“Someone move the dog!” a man shouted from the sidewalk. “They need to go!” Rain began to fall in heavy, scattered drops, dotting the asphalt and speckling Titan’s fur. The driver hesitated, glancing into the side mirror at the unmoving animal. Inside the ambulance, Lauren checked the monitor again. Something about the rhythm felt inconsistent — not quite aligning with the collapse timeline relayed by neighbors.
Richard’s oxygen levels fluctuated unpredictably, spiking and dipping in ways that made little physiological sense. Andrew, about to signal the driver forward, paused. “Hold on,” he said quietly.
Lauren looked up. “What?” Andrew leaned closer to Richard’s face, studying the minute details — the faint tremor in his eyelids, the subtle tension along his jaw. Experience had taught him that the body often told the truth before the machines did.
Outside, Titan barked once — sharp and commanding. The sound cut through the rain. Andrew’s eyes shifted to the IV line. A tiny cluster of bubbles clung to the tubing near the insertion site. Small enough to overlook. Large enough to matter. His pulse quickened.
“Stop the rig,” he called toward the cab. The engine idled but did not move. Lauren frowned. “Andrew, we’re losing time.” “Something’s off,” he replied, voice low but firm. He adjusted the oxygen mask slightly. “Richard, if you can hear me, try to move your fingers.”
For a long second, nothing happened. Then, barely perceptible, Richard’s index finger twitched. Lauren froze. “He was fully unresponsive.” Andrew’s gaze sharpened. He quickly examined Richard’s upper chest and neck. Near the collarbone, partially obscured by the open shirt collar, was a tiny puncture mark — precise, recent. Not consistent with their IV placement.
Andrew felt a cold certainty settle over him. “This isn’t just a cardiac event,” he said. Thunder cracked overhead as the rain intensified. Outside, Titan remained seated, rain streaming down his back, eyes fixed on the ambulance doors as if willing them to open.
Andrew’s mind raced through possibilities — accidental air embolism, deliberate injection, foul play. The timeline neighbors had described didn’t fully align. One had mentioned seeing a dark sedan parked briefly at the curb earlier that evening, engine running.
“Call it in,” Andrew told Lauren quietly. “Request police.” Her expression shifted from confusion to dawning realization. She grabbed the radio.
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