For four consecutive days, Mrs. Evans noticed a subtle shift in her son, Leo’s, routine. Twenty minutes after the school bell, her lively ten-year-old would finally amble through the front door, a familiar, easy grin on his face. Each time she inquired about his tardiness, Leo’s answer was unwavering and simple: “I just stopped to say hello to the husky.” The neighbors, the Millers, indeed owned a friendly Siberian husky named Balto, a local canine celebrity. Mrs. Evans, a busy single mother, initially dismissed it as a harmless detour, a charming interlude in her son’s otherwise predictable day. The innocence in Leo’s eyes, she thought, was irrefutable.
The first ripple of unease struck Mrs. Evans during a casual chat over the fence with Mrs. Miller. “Leo’s been so sweet, stopping to say hi to Balto every day after school,” Mrs. Evans commented, expecting a knowing nod. Instead, Mrs. Miller’s brow furrowed. “Balto? Oh, he’s been at his uncle’s farm all week, getting groomed for a show. He only just got back this morning.” The words hung in the air, cold and stark. Mrs. Evans’s heart plummeted. The innocent explanation had suddenly morphed into a disquieting mystery.
The following afternoon, a knot of apprehension tightening in her stomach, Mrs. Evans discreetly followed her son. She watched as Leo, instead of turning towards their street, veered into a rarely used alleyway, a forgotten space between two old warehouses. Her heart pounded as she crept closer, peering around a dusty corner. What she saw both shattered and uplifted her. There, kneeling beside a severely injured animal, was Leo. It wasn’t Balto. It was a grey wolf, its fur matted, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Gently, her son offered a piece of his snack, his voice a soft murmur in the quiet alley. The wolf, weakened but calm, tentatively accepted the offering.
