At 3 AM, a biker stopped at an empty bridge and heard soft whimpering. There, chained to the cold metal, was a Golden Retriever. Tumor the size of a softball on her belly. Barely breathing. A bowl of water, a worn stuffed duck, and a note begged for mercy.
“She has cancer,” it read. “I can’t afford to put her down. Please don’t let her suffer.”
But tucked in her collar was another note — crayon handwriting, seven-year-old innocence.
“Please save Daisy. She’s all I have left. Daddy says she has to die, but I know angels ride motorcycles. I prayed you’d find her. There’s $7.43 in her collar — my tooth fairy money. Please don’t let her die alone. Love, Madison.”
That $7.43. That tiny hope. That faith in angels on motorcycles. It was enough to ignite a miracle.
The biker called his longtime vet. Surgery was risky, expensive, maybe only months of life. But a seven-year-old believed in hope. He believed in that hope too. He carried Daisy to the truck, through the night, with her head in his lap, wagging despite pain.
Four hours later, Daisy came out alive. Not cured, not perfect, but alive. Stronger each day, tail wagging, eyes bright. And now, it was time to find Madison.
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