But I see the intelligence in his dark eyes, the way he watches me approach without running. Scared but not vicious, hurt but not broken.
I know that look. I've worn it.
"Hey there, boy," I say softly, dropping my bag and crouching down a few feet away. The coin appears in my hand automatically, rolling across my knuckles, and his eyes track the movement with interest instead of fear.
Smart dog. Curious despite his circumstances.
I sit cross-legged on the pavement, making myself smaller, less threatening. "Rough couple of days?"
He limps closer, nose twitching as he tries to figure out if I'm friend or foe.
I pull a protein bar from my jacket pocket—breakfast I was saving for later—and break off a piece. He takes it gently from my fingers, careful not to bite, and wolfs it down like he hasn't eaten in days.
Probably hasn't.
I feed him the rest of the bar piece by piece, letting him get used to my presence. When he finally lets me touch his head, scratching behind his ears, his tail wags harder despite the limp.
And that's when it hits me.
Charity's voice from last night:I always wanted a pet. A dog, or even just a cat. Something alive and warmand… mine.
The longing in her voice when she said it, like she was admitting to wanting something forbidden. The way she explained how her parents thought pets were too unpredictable, too risky.
She's as alone as this dog. As alone as I was at fifteen, before Marcus took me in and then destroyed me.
Maybe I can't give her freedom—that's something she'll have to take for herself. But I can give her this. Something alive and warm and hers. Something that will love her back without conditions or complications. Something simple and good in a life that's been neither.
"What do you think, buddy?" I ask him, scratching behind his ears. "Want to meet someone who needs you as much as you need a home?"
He looks at me with those intelligent eyes, and I swear he understands every word.
My bag sits forgotten on the pavement as I make a new decision. I'm not leaving. Not yet. Not when I can do something good for once.
Getting him cleaned up takes the better part of the morning. I find a self-service dog wash a few blocks north—twenty bucks for thirty minutes, soap and brushes included. The attendant takes one look at us and shakes her head.
"That's gonna take more than thirty minutes, honey."
She's right. It takes three cycles to get through all the matted fur, and even then, he's not winning any beauty contests. But underneath the grime, he's actually a handsome dog—compact and sturdy, with expressive eyes and ears that perk up when he's interested in something.
While he's drying, I decide he needs a collar. The dog follows me to the leather shop around the corner where they sell scraps for cheap. I explain to the owner that I want to make my new friend a collar, but I don’t have the tools. He gives me the once over and looks intrigued to find out what someone like me can do with a few scraps of leather. He sets me up at a corner table where he can keep an eye on me while my canine friend lies down under the table. My hands remember skills older than this civilization. Cut, punch, stitch—basic leatherwork that kept gladiators' gear from falling apart in the arena.
The finished collar is simple but well-made. The guy in the leather shop was so impressed, he threw in a brass buckle for free. The finished product looks like something that came from a pet store, not something cobbled together by a guy who was planning to leave town this morning.
By the time I finish, the dog is dry and considerably more presentable. Still limping on that back leg, but moving well enough, his tripod gait steady and practiced. I tie a length of rope to the collar as a makeshift leash.
"Ready to meet your new family?" I ask him.
His tail wags.
The walk back to the estate takes longer than usual because he stops to investigate every interesting smell, but I don't mind. Gives me time to think about what I'm doing, what I'm offering.
I'm not just giving Charity a dog. I'm giving her something alive, something that will need her, depend on her, love her without conditions or contracts. Something that belongs to her and her alone.
Something her parents will probably hate.
The thought makes me grin. Maybe it's time someone learned what rebellion actually looks like.
The cottage is empty when we arrive, which means she's either at the main house or in that workshop she mentioned. I settle the dog in the living room with a bowl of water and some crackers I found in the kitchen, then pace around the small space, suddenly nervous.
