Andrew, please, kind sir, I beg you! I’m pleading—help us! A desperate woman threw herself at the feet of the tall man in the white coat and burst into tears. Behind a string of shabby consulting rooms, her child was dying in the medicine-scented A&E of the village hospital. —Try to understand! I can’t do it. I just can’t! That’s why I came here! I haven’t operated in two years. My hand, the conditions… —I beg you! Please!—the woman clung stubbornly to the reluctant doctor. He had to agree. He had to try—because otherwise… Just a few more steps. A creaking, white-painted wooden door. And there he was—her little Michael. Her own, her only. Tangled in wires, an oxygen mask hiding his faded freckles. Still breathing. Still alive. And the blood seeping from the bandage on his head was as thick and dark as last year’s cherry jam. The green line on the heart monitor wavered with every ragged breath. There was no way they’d make it to the city; it was a hundred miles. The helicopter… but the blizzard outside had stolen their last hope. His blood pressure kept falling. His heartbeat weaker and weaker. The paramedics averted their eyes. —Kovalevsky!—an elderly nurse clutching the stretcher seized his arm—Andrew! She pulled a crumpled old newspaper from her pocket, showing a photo of the man in his white coat, smiling children clustered around him like redbreasts on a rowan. Tears blurred lines about an accident, a damaged hand, a failed operation—yet spoke of a world-class neurosurgeon. A godsend. In their backwater… If only he’d agree! —I can’t take that kind of responsibility! Don’t you see? Last time… my wrist… I failed! I can’t operate anymore. I just can’t! The boy on the gurney was growing paler. The blood, like jam. The colleagues clustered at the doorway, uneasily silent. The sobbing mother. Time—against them all. And a dog… —A dog? —What’s a dog doing here? Only whining replied. A Labrador lunged for the stretcher, claws scrabbling on the floor, someone tugging at the collar, but he strained forward, locking eyes on Michael—and no longer whined. He rasped. And still he pressed on… —That’s Loyal—he’s Michael’s,—the woman wept, forgetting to breathe as the doctor’s words dropped like a stone into the heavy quiet: —Prep the operating theatre. He shut his eyes for a moment. Another memory surfaced—another dog. Hope. His father still alive. Andrew as a schoolboy. The icy New Year road. The wrecked car in the snow, like a shattered ornament. His mother crying. The doctor’s hesitant eyes. The impossible operation, the centre so far away. And Hope no longer whined at the grave. Only rasped. Stopped eating on the sixth day. Watched. Then followed her owner. Faded away. —I’ll be a neurosurgeon, Mum. I promised Hope, whispered the tousle-haired boy at the grave. The very best. Do you believe me? How could he forget? Why? ***** The theatre lights, blinding as the sun. The shine of steel. His wrist pulsed again. “Maybe I should get a dog”—what wild thoughts, now of all times! His fingers were wooden. Never mind, he’d manage. The injury was bad. Complicated. Pressure dropping, praying swelling wouldn’t worsen… Delicate tissue damaged. The skull bone in shards to piece back together. Blood vessels… And even the fastest helicopter would have been too late. The local assistants’ eyes shone. For them, this was a miracle. For him? How many times had he done this? Why give up after one failure? Why run away? Why break all ties? The wrist throbbed. And Hope’s eyes seemed to watch from the corner… Or maybe it was the Labrador, ready to follow his boy—Loyal. It was hard to hold the clamp. The staples. His fingers trembled. Nearly there—just a little longer. Breathe, Michael, just breathe. Don’t give up. We won’t let you slip away. Time—now it ticked for Michael. Was that the sound of a helicopter, somehow? Had it finally made it? ***** —Dr. Kovalevsky, someone’s asking for you,—the duty nurse peeked into his office and couldn’t help but break into a wide smile. Everyone smiled these days. Kovalevsky had returned. Every department was abuzz. Critical children were being sent from all over the county. Now the fear was gone. Kovalevsky’s hands were “golden.” Laughter echoed down the paediatric neuro wards again. The little ones were recovering. And the parents… why, they followed him everywhere… —Five minutes. Just let me check on Matthew. Just around the corner to his six-year-old patient’s room. A cheeky red-haired boy. Called him Uncle Andy. Came for a trip to London, fell from the second floor—just like Michael from the village. His skull—Dr. Kovalevsky had pieced it together over eight hours. Managed. Even the wrist barely ached. Maybe it was the children’s laughter—healed something, somehow… It was right, after all, that he came back. He should have done it sooner—never had the right reason. Had forgotten so much. But life, well—life reminded him. The dog, though, he’d never gotten around to. Too busy. He often wondered how that Labrador and Michael were getting on. He thought of them a lot. —Oh, Dr. Kovalevsky, dear! No sooner had he reached the door. Speak of the devil! —Hello, Michael, hello, Natalie,—he smiled—And you too, Loyal. His hand reached for the soft head, a wet nose nuzzled his palm. Gentle brown eyes watched him, full of knowing. —What brings you here? Is Michael all right—or are you in for a check-up? —Michael’s grand,—Natalie gushed—absolutely fine! That’s not why we’re here! Only now did Dr. Kovalevsky notice the radiant smile, the oddly bulging coat, her glittering eyes—but it felt awkward to ask. Loyal whirled around restlessly, breaking his train of thought. —Here! A taller Michael couldn’t hold his silence any longer. He burrowed behind his mother’s coat and handed the bemused Dr. Kovalevsky something small, black, pathetic and floppy-eared. —Ah…?—words caught in his mouth as he lifted the surprise to his face. —Don’t be cross,—Michael babbled—Loyal found him. Mum said we could keep him. And yesterday, we saw your interview on telly. And Loyal dragged him to the screen by the scruff when he heard your voice. So Mum and I thought… —You thought right. Long overdue,—Dr. Kovalevsky winked at the beaming dog—He’ll be my inspiration. I’ll call him Timmy.

Please, Dr. Matthewson, Im begging you! Youre my last hope! The woman crumpled to her knees before the tall surgeon, white coat pristine except for the wrinkle of his clenched fists. Her sobs echoed down the tiled hallway of the small town hospitalher pleas reverberated with the desperation of a mother about to lose her only son.

Beyond the maze of worn consulting rooms and the astringent tang of disinfectant in the waiting area, her little boy lay dying.

You dont understand, I cant! I just cant! Thats why I escaped here! Its been two years since I last stepped into theatre. My hand the conditions…, Dr. Matthewson stumbled over his words, voice raw.

Please, I beg you! The woman clung to his sleeve, insistent, refusing to let him turn away.

He had to try. He was the only chance left. If he didnt act now

Just a few steps more. They passed through a battered white-painted door. There, amid humming machines and antiseptic-scented air, lay her boy, Charlieher Charlie. Her sole reason for breathing. Encased in wires, freckled face half-hidden behind an oxygen mask, chest shuddering with uneven breaths. Blood, dark and sticky as blackcurrant jelly, oozed from beneath the bandage at his temple. On the monitor, a trembling green line kept rhythm with his ragged inhalations.

Theyd never get him to the city in timesixty miles by road, the nearest helicopter grounded by a blizzard that had snuffed out their last hope. Charlies blood pressure kept dropping. His heartbeatalmost too faint to hear. The paramedics avoided her eyes.

Matthewson! A nurse, old enough to be his mother, gripped the doctors arm as he hesitated by the stretcher.

She rummaged shakily in her pocket and produced a worn newspaper, the ink smudged around a photograph of a younger Dr. Matthewson, surrounded by beaming children. Between her tears, she pointed to the headlines: Accident. Crushed hand. Failed operation. But a star of neurosurgery! A miracle in rural England Please, God, let him say yes.

I cant take that kind of responsibility. You must see that! His voice trembled. My last operation my wrist I failed! I dont operate anymore. I just cant!

But Charlie paled by the second. Blood kept seeping, thick as jam. Matthewson looked uphis colleagues, gathered silently in the doorway, their faces grim. And the mother, weeping. Time pressed down on them all. And thenhe heard it.

A dog?

Where did that dog come from? someone muttered.

Just a whining in replya golden Labrador straining at his leash, claws scratching at the linoleum, desperate to reach Charlie. Eyes glued to the boy. Whimpers gave way to hoarse panting.

Thats Faithful. Charlies dog, the mother managed between sobs, and her voice gave out completely when Dr. Matthewson finally spokea single sentence, heavy as stone in the suffocating hush.

Prep the theatre.

He closed his eyes for a moment. From the depths of his mind surfaced another dogHope. Everything different then: a living father, just plain Andrew in Year Seven, icy roads, a car crumpled like Christmas tinsel in a snowdrift Mother crying, the village doctor unable to meet her gazeno experience, too far from the city. And Hope, lying at the grave, silent, no longer able to whine, refusing to eat, wasting away in her grief. Gone soon after her master.

Im going to be a neurosurgeon, Mum, that wild-haired boy had whispered at the muddy mound. I promised Hope I would. The very best. You believe me, dont you?

How could he have let that promise slip away?

*****

In theatre, the overhead lamps were dazzlingbrighter than the morning sun. The scalpels shone cold and sharp. And there was his wrist, throbbing again, but he willed himself to ignore it. Ridiculous thoughts danced through his mindShould I get a dog?but there was no time for that. His fingers felt wooden, but he pressed on. The injury was graveblood pressure dropping, swelling close to catastrophe. Tissue torn, skull smashed to pieces. Vessels delicate as spun sugar.

Theyd never have made it to the city in time, helicopter or no. The local assistants eyes burned with intensitysuch a case, to them, was a miracle. How many times had he done this before? So why give up after a single failure? Hide in a rural outpost, cut ties, abandon his gifts? And still, pain flared up his arm. He could almost see Hope in the corner, watching mournfullyor perhaps it was the Labrador. Faithful, waiting for his boy.

He fought to keep the clamp steadyhis fingers almost cramping. Just a little longer. Breathe, Charlie, just breathe. Dont let go. We wont lose you.

Time, at last, was on Charlies side. Was that the helicopters whirring outside, after all?

*****

Dr. Matthewson, theres someone asking for you! The duty nurse peeked into his office, her face split by a broad, irrepressible smile.

They were always smiling these days. Dr. Matthewson was back. The wards buzzed with the news. Parents brought their children from across the countiesno one was frightened anymore. Golden hands, they murmured. Laughter of recovering children bounced down the neurosurgery corridors. Parents, doting as shadows, followed him everywhere he went.

Just five minutes. Let me check on Oliver first.

The room of six-year-old Oliver was just around the corner. A comical, redheaded sprite who called him Uncle Andy. Only last week, hed fallen from the second floor in London during a school trip, just like Charlie had. Eight hours of putting the jigsaw of his skull back together. Hed pulled through. Matthewsons wrist barely ached now, as though mended by all the childrens laughter.

Good thing he came home. It was right. He shouldve done so much sooner. But life had its way of reminding you. He still hadnt gotten that dog, thoughnever seemed to have the time. Funny how he kept thinking about Charlie and his Labrador. Wondered how they were getting on.

Dr. Matthewson! Dearest!

He turnedhadnt even made it out the door. Speak of the devil.

Well, if it isnt Charlie and Sarah, he smiled. And you, too, Faithful.

His hand immediately reached for the dogs soft headFaithful nosed against his palm, brown eyes fixed on him with unfathomable intensity.

What brings you here? Nothing wrong with Charlie, is there? Here for a check-up?

Charlies doing wonderfully, Sarah said, words rushing, her face glowing with a happiness that almost blinded him. We came for something else!

It was only then he noticed how her coat strained across her chest, how her eyes sparkled He felt awkward asking. Faithful circled, breaking his train of thought.

Look!

Charlie, now taller, couldnt contain his excitement. He reached into the folds of his mothers coat and handed Dr. Matthewson a squirming bundle, black and floppy-eared, whining softly.

What? Dr. Matthewson was completely at a loss, staring into those pleading eyes.

Dont be cross, Charlie babbled. Faithful found him. Mum let us keep him. But when we saw your interview on telly last nightFaithful ran up and dragged the puppy to the screen when you spoke. So Mum and I thought

You thought right. Dr. Matthewson winked at the grinning Labrador. Ill call him Spirit. Or maybe Timmy, for short.The puppy wriggled in his hands, a tumble of uncontained energy and heartbeats, licking at Matthewsons fingers with an enthusiasm that sparked laughter from everyone in the roomeven the stoic nurse at the door.

For a long moment, Matthewson just stood there, happiness flooding in quiet waves, grounding him at last. He knelt to Faithfuls level, ruffling both dogs with gentle hands. Charlie giggled, tossing his arms around the Labradors neck.

I guess Ive finally kept my promise, Matthewson whispered, the memory of Hope shimmering just behind his eyes. Thanks for helping me remember.

Sarah squeezed his arm. The ward outside bustled with the ordinary miracles of recovery, but within that circledoctor, boy, mother, and the two ever-watchful dogstime softened, worries forgotten, hope rekindled.

Someone called outanother child waking from sleep, a parent inquiring anxiouslyand Dr. Matthewson rose, cradling the puppy close. Duty calls, he smiled, pressing the squirming bundle into Charlies hands for a moment. But I expect to see you both and Spirit on every visit. Deal?

Charlie nodded, eyes shining, and Faithful gave a bark of approval.

As Matthewson strode back into the corridor, laughter ringing out behind him, he feltfinally, unexpectedlywhole. And when the new sun spilled through the windows, bright and generous, it found its mark in that small, ordinary miracle: a promise returned, a heart healed, and a faithful friend at his side once again.