The moment Arthur’s fingers curled around the cold, grease-slicked glass of the pickle jar, disaster struck.
The water inside the jar swirled as it was lifted from the crate. The tiny pink creature, dislodged from its resting spot on the settled mud, wobbled once, twice. Then slowly—with the horrifying, painful grace of a sinking lead weight—rolled fully upside down.
Its pale, bloated white belly faced the cave ceiling.
Its four semi-clear legs dangled motionless in the salt water, limp as wet thread. Its outer gills, already withered and black, ceased their faint fluttering entirely. The creature floated toward the surface of the foul water like an expired goldfish, fully limp, fully unmoving.
Arthur’s cold and exact composure shattered in a split second.
“No, no, no—”
A cold spike of fight-or-flight rush slammed into Arthur’s chest. In his twenty-eight years as a beast-doctor trauma corpse-judge, he had seen thousands of animals die on zinc tables. But never had an F-Rank miracle slipped through his fingers within three seconds of purchase.
“Heart arrest!” Arthur’s hands moved with wild, gut speed. He set the jar down on a flat granite block, his right hand flashing into his medical kit to retrieve a sterile 28-gauge micro-drain needle and an ampoule of epinephrine-saline buffer. “Vagal collapse from handling shock! The skull squeezing must have triggered a total bradycardia—”
