At 3:58 on euthanasia day, I lifted the syringe for an old orange cat abandoned with a child’s note—and realized I was seconds away from killing the only thing another broken family had left.

Maybe weeks.

Maybe a few months if he feels stubborn.

I know I still can’t save them all.

I know tomorrow there will be more charts, more numbers, more lives measured against space and money and time.

But tonight there is an old orange cat asleep on my couch instead of dying under fluorescent lights.

And tonight, for once, the math did not win.