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I turn.

He slows.

I slow.

This is easy.

Honestly, I'm starting to question how Roman even got stabbed.

Movement near the edge of the road catches my attention. I glance over. A dog limps along the curb.

My steps slow.

He's little. Maybe twenty or twenty-five pounds. Scruffy brown-and-tan fur sticks out in every direction. One ear stands straight up, the other flops sideways.

I squint. I don’t see a collar.

The dog favors one of its front paws.

“Oh no.”

The animal looks at me, eyes weary.

I stop. “Hi, baby.”

The dog’s body stiffens.

“It's okay.”

I take one slow step toward the injured animal. The dog backs away.

“Okay. It’s okay.”

A car passes. The dog flinches and moves toward the road.

My heart jumps into my throat. “Don't do that.”

The dog stops and looks at me.

“Come here, sweetheart.” I take another careful step.

The dog turns, then limps quickly toward an alley between two buildings.

I look down the sidewalk. Roman is getting farther away.

I look toward the alley where the dog disappeared. Then at Roman.

Goddammit.

I turn toward the alley. Roman can wait. The dog can't.

I hurry over, slowing before I reach the entrance.

The dog is pressed against the brick wall near a dumpster, watching me.

I stop. “It’s okay, sweetie.”

Its chest rises and falls quickly.