The rain came down in sheets, driven sideways by howling wind that screamed through the bare trees lining the deserted highway. It was near midnight on the outskirts of a quiet Midwestern town, and the storm showed no signs of relenting. The world was soaked, cold, and unforgiving.

A German shepherd limped through the shadows of a narrow alley near the woods, ribs visible beneath his soaked, matted fur. His movements were slow, weary. Each step the product of days without food, weeks without shelter.

The cold bit into his bones, but hunger drove him forward, snout low, sniffing among overturned trash bins and scattered wrappers. His name, once, had been Max, but now he was nameless, just another stray no one wanted, another soul discarded by the world. As he scoured the alley for scraps, a faint sound drifted beneath the roar of the rain.

Barely audible, a high-pitched cry, soft and strained, he froze, ears flicking. There it was again. Not the whimper of another dog, not a cat.