You pulled your collar tighter, quickening your pace. The bus had been late, the walk from the stop felt longer than usual, and your shoes were already soaked through.

Then you heard it.

A sound so small it almost got swallowed by the storm. A thin, trembling mew.

You stopped. Turned. Listened.

There it was again—weak, desperate, coming from the narrow gap between a dumpster and a brick wall. You crouched down, rain dripping from your hood, and peered into the shadows.

A cat. Soaking wet, shivering violently, one of its hind legs bent at a wrong angle. It looked up at you with wide, terrified eyes.

It mewed again, a pitiful, scraping sound. Then it tried to crawl further into the dark.