As the dog tumbled free, Maya lost her footing and went down hard in the mud again. The cold seeped through her poncho, but she barely noticed. Her attention was fixed on the animal. Would it turn on her now, startled and in pain? Instead, the dog stood motionless, battered but calm, its fear replaced by exhausted relief.
For a few tense seconds, Maya and the dog just stared at each other in the storm. Then, almost shyly, the dog inched closer, sniffed at her coat, and let out a low, grateful whine. Maya’s fear melted away, replaced by a wave of relief so strong it made her knees weak. She pressed a shaky hand to the dog’s damp fur, whispering, “It’s over now. You’re safe.”
Maya expected the dog to run off, but it didn’t. Instead, it tugged gently at the edge of her poncho, then barked—sharp, twice, and urgent. It looked up at her, eyes clear and determined, and then barked again, glancing toward the street. Maya, drenched and shivering, hesitated. Was it asking for help? Did it need something more?
With a resigned sigh, she followed the dog across the rain-swept yard, through the gate, and out onto the empty street. The animal trotted ahead, glancing back every few steps to make sure she was keeping up. Together, they crossed to the deserted park, the storm still raging overhead.