I Thought My Dog Was Acting Strange—Until I Looked Under the Bed (3 of 5)
She tracked me with her eyes. That alone was something.
Murphy stepped forward, settling beside me. His tail wagged—once.
“I’m gonna call someone,” I said, reaching for my phone.
Then, barely audible: “Don’t.”
Her voice was so fragile, it almost didn’t exist.
“Why not?” I asked.
Her whole body shivered. “He’ll find me.”
I didn’t ask who. Not yet. I just told her she could stay. That she was safe. And that tiny promise was enough to get her to crawl out.
She looked like she’d been hiding for days. Mismatched socks, a hoodie too big, hair tangled and eyes haunted. I made toast. Orange juice. She sat at the table, holding the mug I gave her like it was life itself.
That day, I skipped work. I couldn’t leave her.
Her name was Nora.
