Her lips were almost blue, her face pale, but her first words weren’t about herself.

“Please don’t take my dog,” she whispered. “He’s all I have.”

Daniel knelt down, his throat tightening.

“I’m not here to take him,” he said softly. “I’m here to help.”

Her name was Lily. The dog’s name was Max.

They had been sleeping on the streets for two weeks.

Her mother had gone to the hospital one day, “just to rest,” and never came back. She told the story without tears, without drama—just a small voice that wrapped itself around Max like he was the last piece of her world that hadn’t been taken.