It crept toward her—not fast, not aggressive. Then it stopped, inches away, and gently tugged at the bottom edge of her poncho. Maya blinked, confused. The dog let go, turned toward the street, and barked again—twice this time. Urgent. Focused. Then it looked back at her.
She frowned. “Go on,” she said softly. “Go home, it’s over.” She opened the garden gate with one gloved hand, gesturing toward the sidewalk. “Shoo.” But the dog didn’t move. Instead, it stepped back to her, tugged again at her coat, and barked into the storm.
She stared at it, torn. Rain pattered against her hood. The wind whipped at her coat. Thunder cracked in the near distance, and the dog flinched—but stayed. It cowered for a moment, visibly shaking, but it didn’t run. It nudged her leg again. Gently. Pleadingly.
Maya thought about the dog’s owner. It was a service dog that was tired, scared, and drenched—but still trying. Maya felt like the dog was trying to tell her something important. She sighed. “Alright,” she muttered. “You win.” She pulled the hood tighter over her head. “Show me.”