We edged closer. Under a threadbare blanket, an older man lay curled against the wall. His clothes were torn; his face was streaked with grime. When he tried to push himself up his hands trembled like leaves. He met my eyes for a moment, and there was both recognition and a strange, exhausted dignity in them.

“Please… help,” he whispered.

My knees hit the cold cobblestones before I realized I’d dropped to them. The man’s breathing was shallow; his skin was cool to the touch. The dog — that persistent, uncanny guide — nosed the man’s shoulder and whined, as if to say, I brought them. He pressed his body against the stranger, offering warmth and steadying presence.

Daniel’s phone was already in his hand. “I’m calling an ambulance,” he said, voice steady. The word felt small in that narrow space, but it was decisive.

The man’s lips moved around a name that drifted away on a cough: “They’ll find me…” His words cut off into a ragged breath.

From the far end of the alley came the heavy thump of footsteps. The dog’s ears snapped up. He planted himself squarely between us and the sound, low warning barks vibrating in his chest.

Two men came into view, moving with a practiced, predatory ease that immediately made our stomachs tighten. When they saw the man on the ground, their faces hardened.

“There he is,” one of them said, like it was a settled matter.

The old man flinched and clutched my sleeve, his voice barely more than a hiss. “Don’t let them take me back,” he murmured.