I yank the sleeve of my hoodie down, wrapping it tightly around the cut, and force myself to focus. I can’t panic now. The hard part’s not over. Not yet.
I climb in through the window—legs first, elbow next—and drop down into the darkened shelter hallway with a thud that echoes louder than it should.
Waffles recognizes me and whimpers before I even reach his cage.
I crouch low, murmur softly, and unlatch the crate with hands that won’t stop shaking. He presses his nose to my chest. He knows I’m here to save him.
I tuck him inside the front of my hoodie, careful to keep his nose free, and feel his heart beat against mine.
He’s so small. So light.
“I got you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t make a sound.
Hauling myself back through the window one-handed is clumsy and loud, my knees scraping against the frame. One foot catches. I nearly drop him. Panic spikes so fast I taste it. But I don’t let go.
When I hit the dumpster again, I stumble to my knees, holding Waffles close to my chest and breathing hard.
It’s done.
He’s safe.
And I haven’t been caught.
Yet.
I sit there for a moment, crouched beneath the busted window, hoodie zipped halfway over a trembling dog and sweat-soaked skin. My jeans are torn at the knee. My cut arm is still bleeding through my clothes. The sting is nothing compared to the high-pitched ringing in my ears.
I did it!
Which, statistically, is either the most inspiring or the most self-sabotaging sentence of my life.
Waffles's heartbeat flutters against mine, sending Morse code:Please don't let them take me back.
“I won’t,” I whisper, pressing my cheek against his tiny head. “You’re safe now. I promise.”
That’s the thing about promises: I don’t make them unless I know I’ll die trying to keep them. Not because I’m noble or braveor whatever fake gutsy adjective people slap on girls when they want to romanticize the damage.
But because when you grow up being let down by every man who promised something and never delivered, you get weirdly militant about not doing the same.
My mom taught me that. The hard way.
Which means I’ll deal with the fallout later.
Right now, I need to get out of this alley. Before someone calls the cops. Before the adrenaline wears off and the pain in my arm gets loud enough to ruin my shaky calm. Before the weight of everything I’ve done crushes what little future I have left.
I shift to stand before climbing onto the ledge.
Waffles whines. I murmur a soft apology, adjusting the sweatshirt to support him better, when?—
“Seems like jumping’s your best option.”
My heart jerks, and I scream, jumping off the dumpster and nearly breaking my leg.
That voice cuts cleaner than the glass still clinging to the broken window behind me.
It does not belong in this alley.
