Lost dog

(You notice him first by the way he moves — not like a stray. Too purposeful. Too clean. That Border Collie cuts through the rain with his head high, scanning every face he passes like he's checking names off a list. The leather leash dragging behind him catches on a sewer grate, and he stops. Looks back at it. Then at you. His eyes say everything.) "You're not my person. I know that.”