Samuel had a routine, and the routine kept him alive.

Six-fifteen: kettle on. Six-twenty: tea, two sugars. Six-thirty: the chair by the window with Cooper at his feet. That was all he needed since Martha passed.

“You’re giving me that look again,” Samuel said, pushing himself up from the wingback chair.

Cooper didn’t move. His ears were back. His tail wasn’t wagging. He sat rigid at the center of the living room rug, watching Samuel with something that wasn’t quite fear — more like knowing.

Samuel waved him off. “Drama queen. It’s just the kettle.”

He took one step toward the kitchen.

Then the room tilted.

It wasn’t dizziness — it was a full, physical wrongness, like the house had shifted on its foundation. Samuel grabbed the edge of the sideboard. His other hand went to his chest.

“Oh—” he exhaled. Just the one syllable.

The pain wasn’t sharp. It was enormous. A weight pressing inward from all directions, squeezing every cubic inch of air out of his lungs. He tried to call out. No sound came.

Cooper was on his feet in an instant — barking once, hard and low. He pushed his nose against Samuel’s knuckles.

“I’m okay, boy,” Samuel whispered. He wasn’t.

His legs went. Not slowly. All at once.

He hit the hardwood floor on his left side, his shoulder taking the impact, his glasses skittering away and cracking against the base of the grandfather clock. The clock kept ticking. Samuel could hear it from down here — loud and indifferent, measuring the seconds he might not have.

Cooper circled him once. Then stopped.

He lowered his muzzle and licked Samuel’s face in long, frantic strokes. Usually that got a grumble. Now there was nothing.