A sound so faint I thought it was the wind at first—a soft, broken whimper. I froze, fuel nozzle in hand, and glanced around the lot. Nothing but shadows and the distant hum of a buzzing light. Then I heard it again, clearer this time, coming from the corner near the dumpster.
I squinted through the dim glow of the station lights, and that’s when I saw him.
A dog.
He was small to medium in size, with a scruffy coat that had once been golden but was now matted with dirt and grime. His ribs showed through his thin frame, and his ears were pinned back as if he’d long since stopped expecting kindness. His eyes, though—those wide, trembling eyes—locked onto mine, and I swear I felt the weight of his fear and loneliness in my chest.
“Hey there, buddy,” I whispered, crouching slightly. My voice echoed too loudly in the stillness of the night.
He didn’t move. Just stared, tense, ready to bolt if I got too close.
