And for eight years, he had been the only constant in a life that didn’t believe in staying still.
I didn’t plan on finding him. Back then, I was just another guy passing through another forgettable stretch of highway in Oregon, stopping for gas more out of habit than necessity, when I noticed something behind the dumpster—a shape that didn’t quite belong, too still to be trash, too alive to ignore. When I stepped closer, he looked at me with a kind of guarded exhaustion, the kind you don’t expect from something that’s supposed to be carefree.
“Hey,” I had said, crouching a few feet away, careful not to spook him. “You stuck out here?”
He didn’t come to me right away. It took time, patience, and half a sandwich I had bought without much thought earlier that day. But eventually, hunger outweighed fear, and step by careful step, he crossed that invisible distance between us.
I told myself it was temporary.
“Just for tonight,” I muttered, opening the passenger door.
He jumped in like he’d been waiting for that exact invitation his whole life.
