I slumped deeper into the worn-out couch, the glow from the TV screen casting flickering shadows across the dim living room. The controller felt glued to my hands—another endless round of shooting zombies, exploding heads, racking up points. Outside, sunlight poured through the half-closed blinds, but who cared? The real world was boring. No respawns, no power-ups. Just crutches leaning against the wall, a reminder of the accident last year that took part of my left leg. Mom kept nagging me to “get some fresh air,” but why bother? Everything hurt less in here.

The front door clicked open. Mom’s footsteps echoed in the hallway. I didn’t look up. “Jake, honey? I have something for you.”

I paused the game, sighing dramatically. “What now? Another book on ‘overcoming challenges’?”

She smiled that patient smile, the one that made me feel guilty even when I didn’t want to. In her arms was a big cardboard box with air holes punched in the sides. It wiggled a little. “A present. Open it.”

Curiosity got me. I hobbled over on my crutches, set them aside, and lifted the lid. Inside, a fluffy puppy stared up at me with big, excited eyes. Greenish fur, floppy ears, tail wagging like crazy. He yipped and scrambled out, tumbling onto the floor in his eagerness.

For a second, I grinned. “Whoa, a dog? Awesome!” I reached down to pet him. He licked my hand, all warmth and energy, bouncing around my feet.

Then I saw it.

His front left leg—was gone. Just a stump, ending abruptly. He hopped awkwardly on three legs, chasing his own tail in circles, not missing a beat.

My stomach twisted. I pulled my hand back like I’d been burned. “Mom… he’s… broken.”

She knelt beside me, voice soft. “He’s not broken, Jake. He’s perfect just the way he is. The shelter said he was abandoned because of his leg. I thought… maybe you two could understand each other.”

Understand? I stared at the puppy as he nudged a red ball toward me with his nose, barking playfully. But all I saw was the missing part. The flaw. Just like me—half a leg, always the kid who couldn’t run in gym, who got stares at the pool. I shoved the ball away with my foot. “Take him back. I don’t want a defective dog.”

Mom’s face fell. “Jake…”

“I’m going back to my game.” I grabbed my crutches and limped to the couch, resuming where I’d left off. Explosions filled the screen again. Safer. Predictable.

But the puppy didn’t get the hint. He dragged the ball over, dropping it at my feet. Yip. Hop. Nudge. Again and again. I ignored him, mashing buttons harder. He whimpered, pawing at my shoe.

“Go away,” I muttered.

He didn’t. Instead, he picked up the ball in his mouth and limped over to the open space in front of the TV. Dropped it. Batted it with his paw. Chased it on three legs—tripping once, rolling, but popping right back up with that unstoppable tail wag. He fetched it himself, over and over, pure joy in every clumsy bound.

I tried to focus on the game, but my eyes kept drifting. How did he do that? Not care? Not slow down? He acted like the missing leg was nothing. Like he was whole.

A zombie horde swarmed my character on screen. Game over. I tossed the controller down, frustrated.

The puppy seized the moment. He hopped closer, ball in mouth, and dropped it right on my lap. Stared up at me with those trusting eyes. Waiting.

Something cracked inside me. I looked at my own leg—or where it ended, hidden under pants. The phantom aches I still felt some nights. The anger I’d buried under hours of gaming.

Slowly, I picked up the ball. “Fine. One throw.”

I tossed it gently across the room. He bolted after it—or as close to bolting as three legs allowed. Stumbled, recovered, grabbed it triumphantly. Brought it back. Dropped it. Wagged.

Again. And again.

My throws got stronger. He never tired. Never whined. Just played, full throttle.

Mom watched from the doorway, smiling quietly, then slipped away.

Hours passed. The sun dipped lower, painting the room golden. I didn’t notice. We were in our own world—the puppy and me.

Finally, exhausted but buzzing, I leaned down. “You’re pretty tough, huh?”

He licked my face.

I glanced at my crutches. Then at the front door, cracked open to the backyard.

An idea sparked. Scary. Exciting.

I stood, balancing carefully. The puppy tilted his head.

“Come on, buddy. Let’s go outside.”

He barked once, eager.

I opened the door wide. Fresh air rushed in, carrying the scent of grass and freedom. For the first time in months, I stepped out without fear. One crutch under my arm for support, the puppy hopping beside me.

We made it to the porch steps. I sat, heart pounding. He nudged the ball toward the yard.

I threw it—far this time.

He chased. I watched him go, laughing as he tumbled in the grass but sprang up, victorious.

Then, something shifted. I set the crutch aside. Stood on my own. Took a step. Another. Limping, awkward—but moving.

The puppy returned, dropping the ball at my feet. Looked up expectantly.

I grinned, real this time. No hiding.

Together, we played. Two imperfect beings, perfectly in sync.

The world outside? It wasn’t so bad after all.