A young orderly in a blue scrub top rushed forward, dragging a rolling cart in an attempt to block the hall.

“Whoa, whoa—stop him!” he shouted.

Max didn’t hesitate. With a swift sidestep, he avoided the cart, his paws skidding briefly on the polished floor before he regained his stride. Not once did he look back. His eyes remained locked ahead, like a soldier on a mission.

“Where is he going?” a nurse cried.

“Pediatrics,” another voice answered, sharp with disbelief. “He’s headed toward pediatrics.”

Chaos spread as voices overlapped—orders, speculation, fear—but nothing slowed Max down. The rain outside continued its steady rhythm, while inside his wet pawprints formed a trail across the linoleum, a line of intent cutting through the hospital.