They named him Matt for the armor that nearly killed him, but refused to let that be the last truth written on his body. Under anesthesia, every pass of the clippers revealed another crime of neglect: a collar welded to raw flesh, a leash embedded like wire, bruises in the exact pattern of his twisted coat. Three pounds of filth hit the floor before they could finally see his shape, his ribs, his trembling chest still rising on its own.
What stepped off the table was not a victim, but a survivor—sleek, startled by the lightness of his own body, blinking as if the world had been sharpened. In foster care, Matt is learning that touch can heal, not hurt; that voices can soothe, not scare. There are surgeries ahead, medicines, months of rebuilding. Yet for the first time, his future is measured not in what he’s endured, but in how deeply he is now loved.
