Not alone.
And then I looked down.
And saw Titan.
The pit bull was barely holding himself up.
His gray-and-white coat was matted and dirty, one hind leg bent at a wrong, sickening angle. Blood darkened Noah’s pajamas where the dog’s weight pressed against him. Titan’s breathing was shallow, uneven, each inhale sounding like it hurt.
Noah was holding him.
Actually holding him.
Like his small arms were the only thing keeping the dog from falling apart completely.
The boy’s face was streaked with tears, but he wasn’t crying loudly.
He looked like he had already cried himself out.
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