It was cool, cool enough that the wind possessed a slightly bitter, harsher tug than normal. It was the kind of cool that felt crisp, like a bit of fallen leaves in the air, or the feeling of cold after hot. It was a shock every turn the wind took, because that day, the wind was unpredictable. And the sky was that one shade of pale blue-grey, a colour of dirt-water that came from the sea, its blue and sad hues of muddy sand.

He’d driven quietly—quiet, save the jumping drum of his fingers along the leather of the wheel, the bump and crunch of the road, and if he remembered correctly, somewhere along the ride, there’d been a sharp pain in his stomach. The type of pain that just came, and then left just as quickly; he’d slumped further into his seat, a frown settling onto his face—the cold made everything feel so slow.

So the time had passed that way, and it had passed only in sounds. Bump and crunch, but with a swifter upbeat. Waiting was a hum, like the thrum-thrum of something deep and low, but agitation was a higher pitched buzz (both were somewhere in this car with him, and he could touch it if he tried). But if only they could have been emitted, there would have been an absolute absence in sound, the aforementioned quiet that sat heavy here with him.

Maybe the drive hadn’t been quiet, but it had been quick. Quick, but the cold was slow, so everything was slow. But inevitably, it would be his fault that his movements were so immeasurably sluggish, because he did not want to go inside. But he would, eventually, because he had to. And he would tell himself so as he stood there, facing this place, just on the brink of action—

“Go in. You have to go in. March on in there, it’ll be quick—“

And he started a brisk pace, forced it, because if he let the cold slow him down, he would turn and he would leave. The doors were cold too, just like the air, but inside it was lukewarm with fur and yips and barks from behind glass doors. He would walk to the counter without really recalling what their exchange was, and she would gesture him back after a pause seconds too long, because inside where it was warm, time was too fast.

The hall, the room, they weren’t memorable, because they all looked the same, mostly. And he sat there alone, with the yip-yip echoed down the halls and bouncing off the door of this room, because here it was muted. But they entered quickly, and against the white-snow jackets, there was a bundle of charcoal black, and right here they laid him, out and onto the marble. He squirmed, round orbs blinking wide against the lights, and with this he could sympathize. They hurt.

It was quiet, because once she’d laid him on the table, she’d only offered a greeting before rummaging around for her papers, and because he wasn’t alone, he cleared his throat and leaned down to meet chocolate pools;

“Hey, hey—“ He would move to steady the pup, who’d yet to find his paw’s bearings on the slipping surface, “—good morning. Did you eat yet?”

He stroked a thumb against the tufts that refused to lie flat against the dog’s chest, and he frowned, because Willie’s breath was audible and it stuttered. He released a breath, as if this would somehow change that, as if it could be siphoned into him (and the harder he wished, the less possible he knew it to be).

“I haven’t. I’m not feeling hungry anymore.” Willie seemed to agree, if pressing his belly to the cold of the counter were enough sentience for his answer.

They would ask him if he was ready, and he would say yes, because how long could they really wait? And here was Willie, and here she was with the needle pointed away from him, as if it meant all the time in the world. It didn’t.

And when it didn’t, he would smooth his fur, thumb pressing over those stick-up tufts for maybe seconds too long, because the marble was cold, and it made Willie cold, and the cold was slow. She would leave then, and he would be alone again, maybe not now, but very, very soon, and so he didn’t really need to speak. Not really, because there were other sounds, like the yipping, and the tap of foot-pads, and his own breath where Willie’s was too soft.

And when he couldn’t hear it, he pressed his palms flat to the table, where it was cold, because the cold was unpredictable, and it made the seconds slow. And when the time had been done passing, he couldn’t remember.