Manny asked her name softly, careful not to startle her. She hesitated, looked toward the doorway nervously, then whispered one fragile sentence: “He’ll…find…me.” The words shook out of her like a confession. She curled closer to the dog, burying her face as if hiding could make danger disappear entirely.
The terror inside that simple sentence struck Manny harder than winter’s cold. It wasn’t ordinary fear. It carried memory, warning, and something like resignation. Whoever “he” was, she had learned to fear him deeply. Manny felt an old instinct reigniting, the one urging him to protect children who couldn’t protect themselves.