The wind howled through the pine trees like a restless spirit searching for something lost in time. Snow pressed against the cabin windows, frost gripping the world in silence. Inside, Logan Pierce sat motionless in his wheelchair, staring at the empty fireplace.
The flames had long died, just like the vibrant man he once was. At 44, Logan was a shadow of himself—a former United States Marine who had been fearless, disciplined, and respected. Now, he was paralyzed from the waist down, his spine shattered by an improvised explosive device in Afghanistan.
Years of therapy, surgeries, and empty reassurances had led him to bitterness and isolation. Friends stopped calling, family drifted away, and Logan stopped caring. His world shrank to the size of his cabin, and even that felt too large. Tonight, the weight in his chest was heavier than usual. Both the physical pain and the emotional void gnawed at him. His hand hovered over the panel on his wheelchair, where the backup battery for his circulatory support system blinked steadily. One button—that was all it would take to end the pretending, the waiting for hope that never came.
As his trembling fingers reached for the button, a sound interrupted the silence. A thud on the porch. Logan froze. Another thump. Then claws scraping against the wood. Irritated more than curious, he wheeled himself to the door. “Probably a coyote,” he muttered, opening it.
Snow rushed in on a gust of wind, but Logan didn’t notice the cold. Standing there, coated in frost, was a German Shepherd. Tall, powerful, soaked to the bone, breathing hard but standing strong. The dog stared straight into Logan’s eyes, and something inside him cracked. It couldn’t be. No, it was impossible. But Logan would recognize that stare anywhere.
