I pressed the sharp point of the blade into the softest part of the swelling.

Thick, pale fluid burst from the incision, followed by dark, stagnant blood.

The stench of decay was immediate and sharp, filling the clean air of the bay.

Vesper shrieked, a high, desperate sound.

He kicked out violently, his hoof missing my knee by an inch.

I didn’t step back.

I pressed a clean towel to the wound to catch the draining fluid, keeping my body pressed against his trembling flank.

“Good boy,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “It’s out. The pressure is gone.”

I felt his muscles slowly release their tension.

The trembling in his legs began to stop.

I dropped the soiled towel onto the tray and took another one, soaking it in the warm iodine.

As I wiped away the remaining blood, I saw something small and dark wedged deep inside the open puncture.

It was a tiny sliver of silver metal, buried near the tendon.

It didn’t look like a nail or a splinter.

It looked like the broken tip of a medical needle.