It started as an ordinary morning — coffee in hand, keys in pocket, ready to head to work. But as I stepped outside, something unusual caught my eye under my car. At first, I thought it was a plastic bag or an old rag blown by the wind. Then it moved. My heart pounded as I crouched to see what it really was.

Thick, scaly skin glistened in the dim light, claws pressed against the pavement, and a ridged snout peeked out just enough for me to see sharp teeth. My mind raced: an iguana? A monitor lizard? But as it slid further out, there was no mistaking it — a massive, injured alligator, hiding beneath my car as children waited for the bus and neighbors walked their dogs nearby.

Hands shaking, I called animal control, warning the neighborhood kids to stay back. The gator dragged itself across the concrete, scraping and limping, revealing a deep, bleeding wound on its leg. Fear quickly turned to pity. It wasn’t hunting — it was seeking safety. I stood between it and the crowd, urging officers to help, not harm, it.

After nearly an hour, animal control sedated the alligator and loaded it onto a truck. Later that evening, they confirmed it had escaped from an unregistered private facility just two miles away, a place rumored to have lost other exotic animals. As I stared at the empty parking lot, one thought lingered: what other creatures might be kept in cages so close to home, and what would happen if the next escapee didn’t crawl under my car but straight to my front door?