So I gripped my suitcase and turned away from the gate.

Away from the house.

Away from every Christmas, every summer, every family photograph taken behind those walls.

Port Chester was three miles east. I knew because I used to drive past it on my way to the train station—back when I still had a car, a job, and a family.

So I started walking.

The freezing rain turned the road black and slick. My suitcase wheels caught on every crack.

I never looked back.

By the time I reached Port Chester, my feet were numb. The rain stung my face. The cheap flats on my feet had rubbed my skin raw.

Just after midnight, I found a motel with a flickering vacancy sign and thought maybe my luck was changing. I still had the emergency credit card Preston had once given me “for real emergencies.”

Being locked out by your family on Christmas Eve in freezing weather seemed like a real emergency.

The clerk ran the card.

Declined.

He tried again.

Declined.

Then he looked at the screen and frowned.

“It says the card was reported stolen. About twenty minutes ago.”

Twenty minutes earlier, Preston had taken my car keys.

My father had canceled my last financial lifeline while I was still walking in the rain.

I left before the clerk decided to call the police.

At the bus stop on the edge of town, I found the only shelter available—a scratched plexiglass box with a metal bench inside. I collapsed onto it, shaking so hard my teeth hurt.

Then I heard a soft whimper.

A dog, maybe forty pounds, tied to the post with a frayed rope. Its fur was soaked, and it was trembling even harder than I was. Someone had abandoned it there.

Just like my family had abandoned me.

I dug through my purse and found half a stale sandwich from two days earlier. I crouched down and offered it piece by piece. The dog took the food gently, tail tapping once against the concrete.

“We match,” I whispered. “Both thrown away on Christmas Eve.”