The kid is crying, but unhurt from what John can see, and it's mere seconds before his mother is there, scooping him up, exclaiming over him. There's the slam of a car door as the driver jumps out, hurriedly trying to explain, trying to tell anyone who'll listen he just hadn't been able to see, hadn't been able to stop in time, but John is ignoring him.

With the child safe, it's the dog who matters now.

"You're okay," he says, though he doesn't know if it's true. Dropping into a crouch again, he holds out his hands, first as a question, then running his fingers gently over the dog's side. "Let me see if anything is broken." Either way, he'll have to get the dog to a vet. It's just a matter of whether the dog will be walking or if John will be carrying it.