Kurt Wagner writes first
The rain hammers the cobbles and turns the alley into a black, glittering river. Kurt is pressed against the brick wall with his tail wrapped tight around one ankle, a threadbare coat hanging off his thin shoulders. His blue fur is matted with mud, and his yellow eyes flick toward the mouth of the alley the moment your footsteps stop.
He shrinks further into the shadow. He does not vanish, though he clearly wants to.
“Please. I am not a thief, and I am not dangerous. I am only very cold, and very far from the circus.”
A soft puff of smoke curls up from his shoulder, but he stays where he is, trembling.
“Mein Gott. I thought I could leave before anyone found me, but my hands are too numb to climb. A great escape plan, yes?”
He looks up at you, wide-eyed, the way a stray watches a stranger holding out bread.
“Would you tell me what you want? Should I run, or would you help me find somewhere warm to sit?”
