A large cloud bloomed in front of Collin's lips. It was so damn cold. The thin black coat he wore provided him no warmth, and even when he propped its collar up, hoping it'd at least block the cold from wafting in, the chilly air found a way to seep in through the cracks, jabbing at every inch of his skin.

He swore in his mind. He should have taken the car. But no. For once, he listened to his mother.

'Collin, you sit at your desk too much', 'Collin, you should really go out sometimes and get some fresh air', 'Collin, you should be more active; it's healthy'.

Collin this, Collin that, and here he was, freezing his butt off when he could have been toasty inside his car instead.

He pressed on through the snowy sidewalk, ankle-height boots crunching with every step. A little bit of snow got into his shoe, slipping down his ankle and soaking his sock. A plastic bag swayed from his arm with the small bit of groceries he'd picked up. He shielded his eyes when snowflakes attacked them, many settling down on his shoulders and in his fluffy, blond hair. The reddened skin on his cheeks stung.

He took a turn to the left into Fletcher Street, which in reality was a narrow alleyway behind a local Chinese restaurant. Some boxes moved behind the filled dumpster. A rat, he thought, but then a larger shape emerged from behind the soggy cardboard. It wasn't any rodent at all, but a dog. Medium sized, with brown fur, definitely a mix of something and a German Shepherd. Maybe a Golden Retriever? It paced in a slow circle before curling on the ground.

Collin stopped mid-step. It was cold as hell. Far too cold for anyone to safely stay outside over the night. Slowly, he approached, careful not to startle it and hoping it wouldn't lunge at him. The animal lifted it's head, not showing much of a reaction, almost seeming lethargic. He extended his hand, letting it sniff it, before he patted the wet fur. He felt along its neck—no collar.

"Are you a stray?" he asked.

The smart brown eyes watched him.

Was he really going to take this animal home? It could belong to someone, but… he couldn't let it stay on the street in this cold. It was well below minus ten degrees Celsius. He didn't think the dog could survive that.

He straightened up and gestured toward himself. "Come. You'll stay with me tonight. We'll look for your human tomorrow."

The dog didn't move.

Setting his grocery bag on the ground, Collin pulled out a slice of deli meat, swaying it in front of the animal's nose. Immediately, it tried to lift itself up, but its movement was heavy, sluggish. Strained.

"Hungry, huh," he commented, moving his hand away just out of reach so that the dog couldn't eat it and had to follow. But when it took a few steps forward, it became clear it was only using three legs. The two at the front, and the left hind. It was avoiding stepping on the right one. Something had to be wrong, but it was too dark for Collin to see.

He fed the slice of meat to the dog and slowly put his hands under its stomach. With a strained groan, he lifted it. It was surprisingly compliant, not protesting at all, just hanging over his arms like a floppy doll.

Collin wasn't a strong man. He leaned more on the skinny side and average height, but he never worked out. Sports wasn't anything he'd ever been interested in. He hated everything about it—the difficulty with breathing, the sweat, the heat. So even though the walk back home was only a few minutes long, he was more than glad when he finally reached his apartment. His muscles ached and his breath was ragged. At least this exercise warmed him up and he was no longer cold.

Mother would be proud. He technically did some dead-lifting.

Huffing, he laid the dog down in the hallway and kicked his shoes off. He hung his coat away, and shook some of the snow from his hair. On his way to the bathroom, he stopped by the kitchen island to set the groceries down, and came back with a towel. He draped it over the dog and dried it out with brisk strokes. He couldn't hold in a chuckle when the soft fur puffed up, doubling the dog in size.

"Let's take a look at this leg, huh," he said, throwing the towel aside.

Petting the dog, he tried to gather the courage to touch the injured leg. The animal seemed calm, but he knew that touching injuries could set it off into a defensive mode. So very slowly, his hand inched to the hind leg. The spot was darker than other fur, syrup brown, and the hair clumped together. He gently moved it with his finger and sucked in his breath. A long gash ran down almost entirely from ankle to paw.

"What happened?" he asked, glancing at the dog's face. It lay down on its side, not paying any attention to him anymore. "I hope you'll let me clean this up, buddy. I promise, it'll make you feel better."

Back in the bathroom, he tossed the towel into the washing machine and turned to the cabinet to grab a first aid kit. He unzipped it and gathered everything he needed—gauze, bandages, antiseptic.

The dog didn't protest as he cleaned the wound. It only lifted its head when he was disinfecting, and at that moment, Collin's heart raced, scared he'd get bitten.

But nothing happened.

And even though it should, it didn't make him feel any better. A part of him started to worry it was too late. Like the dog was in the cold for too long and maybe he couldn't save it.

He went to bed with a heavy heart that night.