It was a golden retriever — young, maybe two years old, trembling in the cold. Its fur was covered in dirt and something darker, but its eyes… they were still bright.

“Hey, easy,” Cole said softly. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

The dog’s breathing was shallow. One leg was trapped under a broken wooden crate, as if it had been thrown from a truck.

Cole’s throat tightened. He remembered the night his own dog, Duke, had died on this same stretch of road. The memory cut deep.

“Not this time,” he whispered.

He used his jacket to wrap the dog, lifting it carefully onto his bike seat. It whimpered once, but didn’t fight.

Cole strapped the jacket around it, shielding it from the wind. “You’re tough, huh? You’ll make it.”