It was supposed to be just another day outside the station. I had Koda, our K9, by my side when I spotted the boy. Maybe 8 or 9 years old, wearing a worn-out t-shirt and shorts that had seen better days.
At first, he just stood there, watching. His hands fidgeted at his sides, eyes darting between me and Koda.
“You wanna say hi?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
He hesitated, then slowly stepped forward. Koda, sensing no threat, wagged his tail and lifted his head. The boy reached out, touching the dog’s fur like it was the most fragile thing in the world. And then, out of nowhere, he wrapped his arms around Koda’s neck and held on.
Tight.
I expected him to let go after a few seconds. But he didn’t.
His little shoulders started shaking. His fingers dug deeper into Koda’s fur. That’s when I realized—he was crying.
I crouched down. “Hey, buddy… what’s wrong?”
The boy sniffled, burying his face against Koda. Then, barely above a whisper, he said something that made my chest tighten.
“He looks just like my dad’s dog… before he left.”
I didn’t know what hit me harder—the way his voice cracked or the word left.
Koda stayed completely still, letting the boy hold on as long as he needed. And I knew, right then, I couldn’t just let him walk away without knowing more.
