Curled tightly against his side was a large German Shepherd, pressed close like a living shield. The dog was groomed, well-fed, and clearly loved.
The man was not.
His coat was thin, worn through in places where it should have been thickest.
The dog raised its head and watched me quietly as I came closer.
The man noticed me looking and cleared his throat softly, a small, hesitant sound, like he hated to bother anyone.
“Ma’am… I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said, voice rough and strained. “I’m a veteran. We haven’t eaten since yesterday. I’m not asking for money, just… if you have anything extra.”
My first instinct was the one every woman learns: keep walking. A dark parking lot with only one stranger around is never safe.
I’ve learned to be careful, but something made me stop.
Maybe it was the way he kept his hand resting on the dog, as if that touch kept them both steady. Or maybe it was the fact that he obviously took better care of his dog than of himself.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I said, “Hold on one second.”
