A German Shepherd stepped in from the storm, his thick coat soaked through, drops of water trailing behind him on the polished floor. His chest rose and fell heavily, muscles tense beneath his fur. But what captured everyone’s attention were his eyes. They didn’t wander. They were fixed—steady, focused—as though he could see something invisible to everyone else.

For a second, the receptionist froze, unsure of what she was seeing. The sound of his wet paws echoed through the lobby. The security guard jolted up, knocking over his coffee mug as hot liquid spilled across the counter. He didn’t look at the mess. His gaze was locked on the dog striding forward, each step deliberate, as if this hospital was not foreign ground but his rightful place.

“Hey, stop right there!” the guard called, one hand reaching toward his belt, the other raised in warning.

The shepherd didn’t stop. He quickened his pace, slipping past with an agile sidestep. There was no growl, no show of teeth, no aggression—only purpose. It was as if he were running out of time, as if he already knew exactly where he needed to be.