— I couldn’t throw him away, Mum, — whispered Mike. — You understand? I couldn’t.

Michael is fourteen, and the whole world seems to be against him. More precisely, nobody wants to understand him.

Here he comes again, that troublemaker! mutters Aunt Clara from the third floor, hurrying across the courtyard. One mother trying to raise a child alone. No wonder it ends up like this!

Michael walks past, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his ripped jeans, pretending not to hear. He does hear, though.

His mother is still at work, pulling a late shift again. On the kitchen table lies a sticky note: **Meatballs in the fridge heat them up.** The house is dead quiet. Always quiet.

He just left school, where teachers have once more held a conversation about his behaviour. As if he doesnt realise hes become a problem for everyone. He does. What does that change?

Hey, lad! calls Uncle Victor, the neighbour on the ground floor. Seen a limping dog around here? We should get it off the street.

Michael stops and looks.

By the trash bins a dog indeed lies. Not a pup an adult, ginger with white patches. Hes motionless, his eyes watching people. Smart, sad eyes.

Someone ought to put him out of his misery! Aunt Clara adds. He looks sick, probably.

Michael steps closer. The dog doesnt move, only gives a weak wag of his tail. A torn wound on a hind leg bleeds darkly.

Whats the point? Uncle Victor snaps. Grab a stick and shoo him away!

Something inside Michael snaps.

Dont you dare touch him! he shouts, stepping in front of the animal. He isnt hurting anyone!

Uncle Victor is taken aback. Well, look at you a protector already.

Ill protect him! Michael sits down beside the dog, extending a careful hand. The animal sniffs his fingers and gently licks his palm.

A warm rush spreads through Michaels chest. For the first time in ages, someone treats him kindly.

Come on, he whispers to the dog. Come with me.

Back home, Michael fashions a makeshift bed from old jackets in the corner of his room. His mother wont be home until the evening, so no one will scold or chase the infection away.

The wound looks serious. Michael hops online, finds articles on basic animal first aid, squinting at medical jargon but memorising each step.

It needs a peroxide rinse, he mutters, rummaging through the kitchen cupboard. Then a dab of iodine on the edges. Be gentle, dont cause more pain.

The dog lies calmly, offering his injured leg. He looks at Michael with gratitude a look hes never received before.

What should I call you? Michael asks while bandaging the leg. Youre gingermaybe Rusty?

The dog gives a soft bark, as if agreeing.

Evening arrives and his mother steps in. Michael braces for an argument, but she simply inspects Rustys bandage.

Did you do that yourself? she asks quietly.

Yes. Found the instructions online.

What will you feed him?

Ill figure something out.

She watches her son a long moment, then the dog, who is now licking her hand.

Well take him to the vet tomorrow, she decides. See what the leg needs. Have you thought of a name?

Rusty, he replies, a little breathless.

For the first time in months, theres no wall of misunderstanding between them.

The next morning Michael rises an hour earlier than usual. Rusty tries to stand, winceing with pain.

Stay right there, Michael says soothingly. Ill get you some water and food.

Theres no dog food left, so Michael slices the last meatball, soaks stale bread in milk, and offers the mushy mixture. Rusty eats greedily, licking every crumb.

At school Michael manages to keep his mouth shut around the teachers. All he can think about is Rusty is he hurting? Is he lonely?

Youre different today, the class teacher notes, surprised.

Michael just shrugs. He doesnt want to explain; he fears a laugh.

After school he darts home, ignoring the disapproving glances of neighbours. Rusty greets him with a joyful bark, now able to balance on three legs.

Ready for a walk, mate? Michael says, fashioning a leash from a rope. Take it easy on that leg.

In the courtyard a scene unfolds. Aunt Clara, spotting them, almost collapses in disbelief.

Did you just drag that dog home? Michael! Have you lost your mind?

Whats the big deal? Michael replies calmly. Im nursing him. Hell get better.

Treating him? a neighbour pipes up. Where do you get the money for that? Stealing from your mother?

Michael clenches his fists but holds back. Rusty presses against his leg, sensing the tension.

No stealing. Im using my own savings. Ive been setting aside money from breakfast allowances, he says quietly.

Uncle Victor shakes his head. Kid, you realize youve taken on a living creature? Its not a toy. It needs feeding, medicine, walks.

From then on each day starts with a stroll. Rusty recovers fast, soon running, though a slight limp remains. Michael teaches him commands patiently, hour after hour.

Sit! Good boy! Give paw! Thats it! he cheers.

Neighbours watch from windows. Some shake their heads, some smile. Michael notices only Rustys devoted eyes.

He changes not overnight, but gradually. He stops lashing out, starts tidying the house, and his grades improve. He finally has a purpose, and its only the beginning.

Three weeks later the worst fear materialises.

Michael and Rusty are returning from an evening walk when a pack of stray mutts bursts out from behind the garages. Five or six snarling, hungry dogs with firelit eyes. The leader, a massive black hound, snarls and steps forward.

Instinctively Rusty backs up against Michael. His leg still aches, and the strangers smell weakness.

Back! Michael yells, swinging the leash. Get out of here!

The pack doesnt retreat. They close in. The black leader growls louder, ready to pounce.

Michael! a womans voice shrieks from above. Run! Throw the dog and run!

Its Aunt Clara, leaning out of an open window, a few other neighbours peeking from their doors.

Dont be a hero, lad! Uncle Victor shouts. Hes limping; he wont get away!

Michael glances at Rusty. The dog trembles but doesnt flee. He clings to his owners leg, ready to share whatever fate comes.

The black hound leaps first. Michael instinctively wraps his arms around himself, but the bite lands on his shoulder. Sharp teeth tear his jacket, grazing his skin.

Despite the injured leg, Rusty lunges at the leader, teeth sinking into the black dogs throat, his whole body pressing against it.

A chaotic brawl erupts. Michael kicks, swings, trying to shield Rusty from the snarls. He takes bites, scratches, yet refuses to move back.

Good heavens, whats happening! Aunt Clara cries from the window. Victor, do something!

Uncle Victor dashes down the stairs, grabbing a garden rake and a metal rod.

Hang on, lad! he roars. Im coming!

Just as the pack overwhelms Michael, a familiar voice cuts through the chaos.

Get back!

Its his mother, bursting from the stairwell with a bucket of water, dousing the dogs. They yelp and retreat, snarling.

Victor, help! she shouts.

Victor scrambles with his rod, and a few other residents pour down from the upper flats. Realising theyre outnumbered, the stray mutts scatter.

Michael collapses onto the pavement, clutching Rusty. Both are bloodied and shaking, but alive.

Son, his mother sits beside him, gently checking his wounds. You gave me a fright.

I couldnt have left him, Michael whispers. You understand?

I do, she replies softly.

Aunt Clara steps into the yard, eyes wide with astonishment.

Boy, you could have died, she stammers. All because of a dog.

Its not because of a dog, Uncle Victor interjects. Its for a friend. Do you get the difference, Clara?

She nods, tears glistening.

Lets go home, his mother says. We need to clean these cuts. And Rusty too.

Michael drags himself to his feet, scooping Rusty into his arms. The dog whimpers faintly, tail wagging ever so slightly, glad his owner is near.

Hold on, Uncle Victor calls. Will you take Rusty to the vet tomorrow?

Yes, Michael answers. Ill go.

Ill drive, Victor offers. And Ill pay for any treatment that brave dog deserves it.

Michael looks at him, surprised.

Thank you, Uncle Victor. But Ill cover what I can, he says.

Victor claps him on the shoulder. Dont argue. Earn later, give later. For now, were proud of you, right?

The neighbours nod silently.

A month later, on a typical October evening, Michael returns from the veterinary clinic, where he now volunteers on weekends. Rusty runs alongside him, his leg healed, the limp almost gone.

Michael! Aunt Clara calls, hurrying over. Wait a sec!

He stops, expecting another lecture, but she hands him a bag of premium dog food.

Its for Rusty, she admits sheepishly. Good quality, a bit pricey. You look after him so well.

Thanks, Aunt Clara, Michael replies earnestly. We actually have our own food, but Ill keep this for later.

Back home his mother is preparing dinner. She smiles at him.

How was the clinic? Did Dr. Anne like you?

She said my hands are steady and Im patient, Michael says, ruffling Rustys head. Maybe Ill become a vet one day. Im serious about it.

And school? she asks.

Fine. Even Mr. Patel from physics praised me for paying attention, Michael grins.

She nods. In the past month Michael has changed beyond recognition. He no longer yells, helps around the house, and even greets neighbours politely. Most importantly, he finally has a goal.

Tomorrow Uncle Victor is coming over, his mother mentions. He wants to offer you another job an assistant at a local breeding kennel.

Really? Can I bring Rusty? Michael asks eagerly.

I think so. Hes practically a service dog now.

That evening Michael sits in the yard with Rusty, practising a new command guard. The dog obeys, eyes locked on his owner with unwavering loyalty.

Uncle Victor joins him on the bench.

Are you sure youll go to the kennel tomorrow? he asks.

Absolutely. With Rusty.

Then get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.

When Victor leaves, Michael lingers a while longer, feeling Rustys head rest on his knees, a contented sigh escaping the dog.

They have finally found each other. And they will never be alone again.