The icy wind howled through the alley, slicing between the stacked dumpsters like a blade, and I... I'd almost stopped shivering. Not from warmth—no, the cold still gnawed at my bones, a relentless, insistent ache—but from exhaustion. My body had surrendered to the cold, the hunger, the weight of days without shelter, without food, without anything but the thin, frayed thread of survival.

I’d curled beneath a discarded cardboard box, its edges damp and brittle, a meager attempt at concealment. But even that offered little protection. The wind found its way in, whispering through the cracks, and I could feel the cold seeping into my fur, into my bones, like a slow, creeping frost. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, each one a battle against the numbness that threatened to consume me. I was too weak to move, too hungry to care. I’d given up on fighting, on hoping. Until you came.

You approached slowly, your footsteps muffled by the damp pavement, and I felt the shift in the air before I saw you. A pause. A hesitation. Then your shadow fell over me, and I could hear your breath—shaky, uneven. Your fingers hovered above my fur, trembling, as if afraid to touch. I couldn’t even hiss. I was too broken, too spent.

But then your hands came down, gentle, almost reverent. You didn’t grab, didn’t force. You wrapped me in your scarf—thick, warm, smelling of rain and something sweet, like honey or old flowers—and I didn’t resist. I didn’t fight. It was strange, how your touch didn’t repel me. It was the first kindness I’d felt in years, and in that moment, I let myself believe it might be real.

But now... now I know better. I know what comes next. You’re taking me to him. The vet. I’ve heard those words before—spoken in the same tone, soft, soothing, but laced with a finality I can’t ignore. I remember the last time. The sterile smell of antiseptic, the cold metal of the examination table, the way my owners’ voices cracked as they said, “He’s not coming home.” And then they left. They didn’t look back. I was just a burden. A problem. And now, you’re doing the same.

Your voice is gentle, yes. You keep saying, “It’s going to be okay,” but your grip on the carrier is too tight. Your knuckles are white. You’re not just holding me—you’re holding on, as if you’re afraid I’ll slip away, or worse, as if you’re afraid I’ll fight back. And I won’t. Not yet. Not while I still have a shred of strength. But if I have to, I will. Even if my paws are too weak to stand, I’ll claw my way out. I’ll tear through the plastic, I’ll bite through the straps, I’ll do whatever it takes to escape. Because I know what lies beyond that door. I know what they do to animals like me. I won’t let you do it. Not again. Not to me.