Joshua didn’t dream anymore—not the kind that gave you hope.
Most nights, he and Lucky curled under a flickering streetlamp, sharing a thin blanket and the sound of the city.
But tonight, something was wrong. The silence broke. A scream tore through the dark—sharp, raw, panicked.
Joshua’s eyes flew open. Lucky jerked upright, ears pricked like arrows.
This wasn’t a drunk shouting. This wasn’t a fight.
This was danger.
Joshua pushed himself up, every muscle tight. His hand went straight to his battered backpack, his only “locker” in the world.
“Quiet,” he whispered to Lucky. The dog froze, as if he understood every word.
Another sound echoed—faint but clear—a man’s voice, harsh and threatening. It came from the alley across the street, where the streetlights didn’t reach.
Joshua stared at the dark mouth of the alley. Something told him he shouldn’t go. But something stronger told him he had to.
