A second after the sound — while I focused on the puppy — movement appeared in the frame behind me.

Quick. Barely visible. But it was definitely there. A human silhouette, tall, too close, that quickly hid behind a dumpster just before the frame tilted.

It wasn’t a shadow. It wasn’t a trick of the light.

It was a person. Watching.

The next morning I returned to the alley, the puppy wrapped in a towel in the passenger seat. I cleaned him up as best I could, fed him, even let him sleep on the pillow next to me. I named him Patch.

But the alley seemed different now. I searched the area—behind the Dumpster, behind the warehouse, even up the fireman’s ladder. Nothing. No sign of anyone.

There were no nearby cameras. Just a few beer cans and fresh footprints on the ground that weren’t mine.

I filed a police report, showed them the video. They took it seriously, said they would patrol the area more often, but I could see they didn’t know what to do about it either.

Patch is safe now. He’s gained weight, learned to play again. He still backs away from loud noises, but wags his tail when I come in the house.

As for who or what was there watching us that day…

Sometimes I still look over my shoulder. Not out of fear, exactly. Just a quiet instinct. A reminder that in a city full of people, you’re never truly alone.

Especially when you think you are.