Behind a suburban shopping mall in Colorado, there was a strip of scrubby grass and a rusted chain-link fence. That’s where the rabbit lived.
She was white with brown patches, too clean-looking to be wild. The first time mall employees saw her, hopping nervously near the dumpsters, someone said, “Who in the world dumps a pet rabbit?”
They tossed her wilted lettuce from the sandwich shop, carrot tops from the salad bar. She nibbled cautiously, always ready to bolt, ears twitching at every sound.
Winter crept in. The lettuce froze on the ground. The rabbit’s fur fluffed, but she wasn’t built for snow and wind. Still, she stayed, because she didn’t know where else to go.
One teenage employee, Dani, started bringing pellets from a pet store. “We should call a rescue,” she told her manager. “Rabbits can’t survive like this.”
The manager shrugged. “If you want to, go ahead. Just don’t let it interfere with your shift.”
Dani emailed a rabbit rescue. They replied, “We’re full, but if you can catch her, we’ll find a spot.” She borrowed a small crate and spent her breaks crouched near the fence, scattering pellets, whispering, “It’s okay, I’m here to help.”
The rabbit slowly grew bolder, coming closer each day. Her paws left tiny prints in the thin layer of snow.
One night, a blizzard rolled in earlier than forecast. The mall closed early. Dani’s parents insisted she come straight home. “But the rabbit—” she started.
“They close the mall, she’ll be fine behind the building,” her father said. “You’re not staying out in this.”
By morning, everything was buried in white. Dani rushed to work, heart pounding. She sprinted behind the mall, boots slipping in the slush.
At first, she saw nothing. Then, near the fence, she noticed a small, strangely shaped mound of snow. Kneeling, she brushed it away with shaking hands.
The rabbit lay curled in a tight ball, eyes half-closed, fur soaked and stiff. Her tiny body was cold and impossibly light when Dani gathered her into her arms.
“Please,” Dani whispered, running to her car, cradling the rabbit inside her jacket. She raced to the nearest vet, ignoring speed limits and her own tears.
The vet tech took one look and gently shook her head. They tried warming blankets, oxygen, quiet words. The rabbit’s chest moved once, twice, then not at all.
“She must have been out there all night,” the vet said softly. “Her body just couldn’t keep up.”
Dani nodded numbly, staring at the small form on the stainless steel table. “I was going to save her,” she whispered. “I told her I would.”
The rescue never got their new intake. No one posted her picture online. The mall employees noticed only that the rabbit stopped appearing behind the building. After a while, they stopped looking for her.
Only Dani remembered the way the rabbit’s nose had twitched when she took pellets from her hand, just days too late to matter.
