That morning, Tina followed her usual route, coffee cup in one hand and tote bag slung over her shoulder. The road was calm, save for a lone figure in the ditch: a scruffy dog huddled over something dark.
At first, she barely noticed it. Stray dogs were a common sight, and this one appeared worn and weary, with patches of fur missing and ribs faintly visible. He was curled protectively around a blanket, his nose buried deep within, as though he were hiding something—or desperately trying to keep warm.
Traffic was light, and Tina instinctively slowed down, her attention caught by the sight. The blanket wasn’t casually draped—it was tightly bundled, pulled close around the dog’s chest. His posture seemed off, not one of rest, but of protection. She frowned, then continued driving.
Yet, the image lingered in her mind. At the next stoplight, she glanced into the rearview mirror, expecting to see the dog stir, shake off the blanket, and move on. But he didn’t. He remained huddled in the ditch, his shoulders tensed, as if guarding something far more valuable than just an old blanket.
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