Boundaries

I peeled myself out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a cat being dragged to a bath. The wall clock blinked 8:15 AM, but my body was convinced it was still midnight. Mornings? Hate them. Afternoons? Also hate. Evenings? Yeah, you guessed it. But work doesn't wait for existential crises, so I stumbled downstairs, where my family was already deep in conversation about life—like life was some kind of blessing instead of a cosmic joke. "Morning, Mum," I mumbled, stealing a piece of toast straight from her frying pan. "Good morning, Matthew. Aren't you late for work?" she asked, casually replacing the stolen slice like this was our daily routine. I grunted something noncommittal and made my way to the living room. I was about to greet Dad when—bam. My foot caught on something, and I stumbled forward, barely catching myself before my face could kiss the floor. "What the—" Laughter erupted behind me. Not the normal kind of laughter. No, this was rabid-hyena-grade laughter, complete with wheezing. I turned to find my older brother Drew crouched with his phone pointed at me. He'd probably filmed the whole thing. "Seriously?" I glared at him. "You have nothing better to do?" "Nope," he said between cackles. "Your face, man—priceless." Ignoring him, I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. My dad got no greeting today. He'd still be here when I got back, anyway. Probably. The animal shelter wasn't far—fifteen minutes on a good day. I made it in five because I took my bike. Sure, it was rustier than a shipwreck and sounded like a dying goose when I pedaled, but it worked. That was all that mattered. When I arrived, Mr. Chen was already there, crouched over Nelly, a stray cat we'd taken in last week. Mr. Chen was...well, exactly the kind of guy you'd expect to run an animal shelter. Somewhere in his sixties, with silver-streaked hair tied back in a low ponytail and eyes that always seemed to carry a quiet wisdom. His voice was heavily accented, his Mandarin roots unmistakable. He glanced up as I walked in, but didn't say a word about me being thirty minutes late. He never did. I knew why. He pitied me. I could see it in the way he watched me out of the corner of his eye, like I was some fragile thing that might shatter if he pushed too hard. I hated it. "Morning, Mr. Chen," I said, crouching down to scratch behind Nelly's ears. She purred, leaning into my hand. Sweet little thing. I'd secretly named her Melly, but I didn't tell him that. "Morning, boy," he said. "We've got a new patient today. Come take a look." Reluctantly, I left Melly and followed him into the infirmary. That's when I saw her. A German Shepherd, lying motionless on the table. She didn't look like the big, majestic dogs you'd see in movies. She looked small—fragile. Her fur was dull, her body trembling slightly, and the soft whimpers that escaped her throat made my chest tighten. "Her owner dropped her off this morning," Mr. Chen explained. "Said she's been like this for a while." I swallowed hard. I'd always wanted a dog. Always. But my parents had said no, claiming we didn't have the "resources." That was just their polite way of saying we were broke. Now, looking at this dog—her pain, her fear—I felt a rush of anger. If I ever had a dog, I'd never let them end up like this. Never. “Hey there, you’re in good hands now,” I whispered, rubbing behind the German Shepherd’s ears. Her fur felt thin under my fingers, but she leaned into my touch, her soft whimper tugging at my heart. “Matthew, go grab the crates from the storage room while we run the diagnostic tests,” Mr. Chen instructed, breaking our moment. I sighed and nodded, giving the dog one last reassuring pat before heading to the back.