As the weeks went by I began to grow comfortable at Monday Magazine. I handled Tyronne's schedule like a pro, had lunch every day with Judy, Meg and Louisa, and spent the weekends either on the phone to Lindsey or laptop in hand writing mock articles on various subjects.

I tried to ignore the knee thing with Tyronne in his office and focus solely on writing him something he would deem worthy. I was proud of what I'd written, and went in early Friday morning, as discussed as the deadline, to make sure I printed out a fresh copy and had it on his desk ready to go. Maybe he was just trying to be friendly? The article also took my mind off the whole Mark Hammond thing, who I thankfully hadn't heard any more from.

Tyronne didn't say anything when he came in that morning, and then it disappeared off his desk. I waited for him to say something, or even to acknowledge that he'd seen it, but with each passing week I grew more glum with the realisation that he must've thought it was too atrocious to even give me feedback. Maybe I should have given it to Max as well... although if it was terrible then that was a terrible, horrible embarrassing idea.

As the last week of winter approached, the cold weather started to slowly ease and I found myself packing away my winter jackets. I'd worked up the nerve and decided I would ask Tyronne about my article, he had to have read it. Surely he had some feedback to give me. Maybe he'd just been really busy and forgotten and needed reminding?

Then one morning, as I was stalking my way confidently in to work, ready to broach the subject with Tyronne, and just as I'd gotten out of the elevator, my mobile buzzed in my pant pocket.

I saw the goofy photo of mum on the screen with her name overhead and quickly answered. "Hi, mum, I just got to work. Can I call you later?"

"Sam?" Her voice was thick. "Honey..."

My throat contracted and grew a hard lump as I stopped in my tracks, halfway across the floor from the elevator to my desk.

"Mum? Mum, what's wrong?" I covered my other ear and ducked my head, if only to ensure I heard her words absolutely.

"Honey... it's Henley," I could hear the slur of her words mixed with a stuffy nose from crying. "He's not doing so well."

"What do you mean? What's wrong with him?" I knew he was getting pretty old. Every time I visited and saw him the thought crossed my mind as I watched him hobble around on stiff arthritic legs.

"It's his time, Sam."

I felt my heart swell immeasurably in size and my eyes grew hot. I didn't know if I could form words to reply without opening up my tear ducts for monsoon season so I was silent for a moment.

"Sam?"

I nodded but realised she couldn't see me, cleared my throat, and said, "Yeah... sorry... I'm here. Is dad there?"

"Yes, he's here. The vet's just been, he gave Henley something, maybe some morphine I think... for the pain."

I nodded again. My voice shook. "Okay, well, I'm on my way, alright. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Okay, honey. Don't speed," Mum said firmly. "I'll call you if there's... any changes."

I hung up and blew out a breath and turned to go back to the elevator, when it opened with a gentle beep. Max stood in the elevator, and looked up to meet my eyes. His brows drew together as he registered the look on my face and the likely panicked look growing in my inflamed, slowly reddening eyes.

"Sam?"

I burst into tears. Max stepped forwards and took me gently by the elbows. "Sam? What is it?"

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't apologise. What's wrong?" His jawline grew taut.

"It's my dog..." I managed to choke out. I saw his shoulders relax and he blew out a breath. "He lives with my mum and dad still. He's really old... I think he's dying. I'm sorry, Max, I have to go and see him."

Max took a step back and hit the elevator call button. Within moments the doors slid open and he stepped inside, pulling me with him by the elbow. He slipped his phone out of his pocket and pushed a button, murmuring quiet words into it before pressing the floor for the parking garage, all the while keeping one hand on my elbow. I barely registered it, like a warm anchor, while my thoughts about Henley went mad.

"What are you doing?"

"You said you need to go and see your dog."

"What about work?" I sniffed grossly, trying to get the snot to disobey the laws of gravity. He looked down at me without pause.

"Sam, don't worry about work. Just go and see your dog and your family."

"But Robertson is like, five hours away. What if I don't make it?" I sniffed again and Max reached down and took one of my hands in his as the elevator slid smoothly downwards with a reverberating hum. He gave my hand a warm squeeze.

"You'll make it," he said decidedly. The elevator doors slipped open to reveal a shiny black Lexus sitting and waiting, with the engine softly purring. He stepped forward and opened the door, nodding to the driver inside.

"Max, what is this..."

"Sam, just get in."

"I can take my car, you don't need your driver to drive me all the way to Robertson," I tried to argue. He flicked me a stern look, his dark eyes hard and unwavering.

"Sam, just take the car. You can't drive in your condition anyway, you'll probably crash into a ditch somewhere," he almost rolled his eyes but refrained. I hesitated for a moment, realising he was probably right. My heart felt like it was going a million miles an hour. This was Henley. We got him when I was five years old. I just wanted to get there to see him before he...

"Alright, fine," I stepped forward and into the waiting car. He gave me a small and silent nod before he shut the door firmly, sending the backseat into a warm darkness. The clean leathery smell of the seats hit my nose as the car started forward.

*******************************

It took a lot less than five hours to reach Robertson from the city. It made me wonder exactly what Max had said to his driver on the phone. It hadn't seemed like we were speeding, although to be honest I spent most of the drive crying into my hands or sniffling and looking out the window. The wheels of the expensive car made it seem like we were gliding endlessly along the smoothest road in the whole world.

The driver remained silent, although I could see him casting me the occasional worried looks in the rear-view mirror. I wonder if he knew what was happening. Maybe he thought someone had died, like my mum or dad or grandma or something.

The car rolled to a stop outside my house. I hadn't even thought to check if the driver knew the address, but somehow, he did. My feet were on the bitumen before it could completely stop and I took off up the long driveway towards the veranda. My mum, with her bat-like mother's ears, must've heard the car and met me at the door.

I was enveloped into her arms and immediately I started crying again. "Did I make it? How is he?"

Mum drew back and wiped harshly at one of her wet eyes. "He's hanging in there. We gave him another bit of the liquid morphine that the vet left. I think he's been waiting for you, honey. He hasn't wanted to go."

My heart seemed to swell all over again, with the heavy weight of a feeling that throbbed dully, settling itself in my chest. It throbbed over and over like a ball of anxiety and adrenaline ready to pounce as I took each step forward into the house. It was a feeling I'd never felt before in truth. I'd never had anyone die before. I'd been so little when my grandparents had passed away, Dave not even born yet.

I saw him as I rounded the corner of the entryway. He was lying on his side, on the lounge, all spread out. Someone had put a blanket over him, to keep him warm, probably my mum. I could see his steady breathing, if only a little slow, and tears pricked into my eyes as my heart stuttered forward against my ribs. It felt like it was going to move up into my throat at any moment. Like being punched in the throat with your own heart.

My dad sat in the armchair across from him and Dave sat in the corner of the lounge, right next to Henley. Dave looked up when I entered, but he didn't jump up and come to greet me. I could tell he didn't want to jostle Henley, his anxious little boy face so young in that moment. I strode over and squatted down by the edge of the couch, so my face was close to his and I could drape my arms across his fur.

"Hey, Hen," I said. I ran my hand down his head, over his ears and across the thick fur on his neck, scratching it and absorbing the feeling as I went. "Who's my good boy?"

He didn't lift his head, I could tell he didn't have the strength left in him, but his eyes looked at me and he nestled his head towards mine in acknowledgement. I felt his nose, rough and dry against my cheek, as I kissed his forehead three times over.

"How are you doing, boy?" I couldn't control the warm, salty tears that slipped their way down my cheeks and into his fur. "Thank you for hanging in there. I'm sorry it took me so long to get here."

I kept my head close to his, breathing in his furry smell, my hand on his soft white head. His round brown eyes, that were looking at me just a moment ago, fluttered slowly shut, and then quietly, he died. It took all the time of a single breath; such a usually short and thoughtless thing, now stretched into a moment eternally longer.

I felt Mum's hand on my back, heard Dave shuffle closer so his arms draped over Henley too, and I rested my head next to his and cried.