The nights were the worst. Cold, lonely, and way too long. But at least I had Rusty.
Rusty wasn’t just a dog—he was my last friend. My only family. We had been through everything together, and no matter how bad things got, he always curled up next to me, keeping me warm, keeping me sane.
That night, I was sitting on the sidewalk, holding him close, when a police officer stopped in front of us.
I tensed up. Cops usually meant trouble for people like me.
“You okay?” he asked. His voice was calm, not harsh like I expected.
I hesitated. “Why are you helping me?”
He sighed, still looking at Rusty. “Because I know what it feels like to lose someone you love.”
I didn’t understand what he meant. Not at first. But as he stood up, he took one last look at Rusty—the kind of look that made my stomach twist.
Like he already knew this dog.
Like he recognized him.
I watched the officer walk away, disappearing into the swirl of people going in and out of the 24-hour convenience store down the street. Rusty tilted his head, ears perked, almost like he was trying to remember the officer’s face, too. Something about the exchange made me uneasy—an odd sensation of both hope and dread in my chest. We’d never experienced a cop being so gentle and kind to us before.
But I wasn’t going to question a good deed too much. I tucked the cash in my coat pocket. Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe I could get Rusty a hot meal—even if it was just some broth from the takeout place—and find a warmer spot to rest.
In the weeks that followed, I tried to lay low. Usually, I stuck to the same corners, the same park benches, but I felt the urge to keep moving. A part of me worried the officer might come back. Not because he’d arrest me, but because there was an unsettling weight to the way he’d looked at Rusty. I needed to protect my friend, and I had no idea what that look had meant. Was Rusty in danger? Or was he recognized for some reason I couldn’t guess?