I don’t remember the last time someone looked me in the eye and said my name. Not “hey man,” not “sir,” not “move along.” Just… my name. But these two? They know it. They know me. They know the sound of my breath when I wake up cold. They know when I’m pretending not to be hungry because I’ve only got enough food for one meal—and they each take half.

They know the rhythm of my heartbeat when I hear sirens in the distance, and they press in a little closer. People pass by every day. Some drop a coin. Some turn their heads. A few take pictures like I’m some kind of exhibit on a street corner. But what they don’t see is I wasn’t always here.

I had a job.

I had a wife. A son who looked just like my youngest pup, Bowie—wide-eyed, soft-hearted, always leaning on me for warmth. But then came the layoffs. The missed mortgage. The fight we never fixed. The night the crib was too quiet. I lost my roof first. Then my name. Then… my voice. Until one rainy night, these dogs found me. I was curled under a bench, shivering, trying to sto  time with my thoughts. Didn’t even hear them at first. Just felt something press against my legs—warm, alive.