He crossed the road outside the cemetery and continued along the sidewalk.
I expected him to wander.
He didn’t.
He moved with complete purpose.
He never hesitated at a turn.
He cut through streets I didn’t recognize, passed a shuttered gas station, and continued down a narrow alley behind a row of houses I had never had any reason to visit.
More than once, I considered turning around.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered.
I was a grown woman following a stray dog through unfamiliar streets on a Sunday afternoon.
But every time I slowed down, the dog kept moving.
There was something about the certainty in his steps that kept pulling me forward.
The neighborhood gradually changed.
The lawns became smaller.
Paint peeled from porch railings.
Several cars sat beneath faded covers.
A bicycle missing its frontwheel leaned against one fence.
The dog crossed another street without even slowing down.
