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.