Maya looked up at the bus shelter's cracked roof, then down at the dog. Rain drummed on the plastic and dripped through the gaps, yet not a single drop had touched its fur. It tilted its head, as if it had been waiting for her.
“Are you lost too?” she whispered. The dog stood, trotted three steps into the downpour and looked back. Still dry. Maya's heart thudded. Every sensible thought told her to stay put and phone Mum again, but her phone had died twenty minutes ago.
She followed.
The dog led her past the shuttered bakery and down an alley she had never noticed, where the streetlights gave up and the dark pressed close. Puddles soaked her trainers. Somewhere a gate creaked. Just as Maya decided to turn back, the dog stopped beside a door with a dim lamp above it: Hill Lane Taxis.
Inside, a man with a grey moustache looked up from his crossword. “Lost your bus, love? Happens every Friday. I'll ring your mum and drive you home.”
When Maya turned to thank the dog, the doorway was empty. On the step, where it had been sitting, was a small dry patch in the shape of a curled-up dog, already fading in the rain.