A young woman, standing behind the vet, hands him a syringe.
“No!” croaks out again, louder. I look at everyone standing over the mare, search their faces, and feel an overwhelming wave of helplessness wash over me.
The vet hands the assistant the syringe, squats down near Octavia’s head, and motions for me to do the same. I kneel in the cold gravel.
“She’s got a twisted gut. There’s not a good chance of survival even if we could get her into surgery in time. Dover Med Center’s over an hour away.”
“But, maybe if—”
He holds up a hand to stop my words.
“Listen,” he orders, as Octavia lets out another low moan. He points to the mare. “Look at her. She’s in a lot of pain.”
I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see.
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