The sky had been a bruised purple all morning, a heavy promise of the typhoon to come. By early afternoon, the first fat drops began to fall, quickly escalating into a relentless downpour. Streets that had bustled with morning traffic were now deserted, save for the occasional car rushing past, its wipers fighting a losing battle against the deluge. It was a day for staying indoors, for warm drinks and the comforting thrum of rain against windows. But for a lone, dark-furred dog, the storm was an impending threat, a terrifying force that offered no sanctuary. He had been wandering the roadside for days, a gaunt shadow on the periphery of human existence, his world a constant search for scraps and a dry corner. Now, even those meager hopes were being washed away.
He found a small overhang, the roof of an abandoned stall, but it offered little protection. The wind began to pick up, whipping the rain sideways, and soon he was soaked to the bone, shivering uncontrollably. Every rumble of thunder sent a fresh wave of terror through him, his ears flattened against his head. He was tired, hungry, and utterly alone, the sounds of the storm deafening out any other hope. A flicker of distant light, perhaps a house, offered a momentary, fragile hope, but the sheer expanse of the water-logged road seemed insurmountable.
