She even caught herself rehearsing excuses—I’m late because I stopped for a dog—but dismissed the idea. Logic insisted she’d exaggerated. The creature had food somewhere, a routine, perhaps an owner nearby. There was no reason to worry over a ragged animal on her commute.
Yet an unnamed unease clung stubbornly. The way his head had darted up when she passed, eyes glassy with both defiance and plea, unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. Dogs didn’t stare like that over trash. Dogs stared like that when something precious was at stake.
She told herself she’d check again on the way home, just to clear her conscience. It wasn’t a promise so much as a bargain—one quick glance, then she could forget the entire unsettling image. The hours ticked by slower than usual.
By the time she packed her things and headed back out, twilight shadows stretched long across the pavement. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. One way or another, she’d get her answer: was it truly nothing, or something she’d regret ignoring?
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