Just a second after the sound—while my focus stayed fixed on the pup—there was movement behind me in the frame.

Fast. Barely visible. But definitely there. A human shape, tall, too close, slipping behind a dumpster just before the frame tilted.

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

It was someone. Watching.

The next morning, I returned to the alley, pup bundled in a towel in my passenger seat. I’d cleaned him up best I could, fed him, even let him sleep next to me on a pillow. I named him Patch.

But the alley felt different now. I searched the area—looked behind the dumpster, behind the storage unit, even up on the fire escape. Nothing. No sign of anyone.

No cameras nearby. Just a few beer cans and fresh footprints in the dirt that weren’t mine.

I filed a report with the police, showed them the video. They took it seriously, said they’d patrol the area more often, but I could tell—they didn’t know what to make of it either.

Patch is safe now. He’s gained weight, learned how to play again. He still flinches at loud noises, but he wags his tail when I walk through the door.

As for whoever—or whatever—was out there watching us that day…

I still check over my shoulder sometimes. 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.