“Bo!” he called, already moving closer.
The name hit the air like it belonged there.
Bo pressed himself against my leg.
Not running.
Not freezing.
Choosing.
I stood up slowly, keeping my hand on his collar—not forcing him, just there.
Janine’s voice was still in my ear, breaking up with static and fear. “Don’t let him take him—please, don’t—”
The man stopped a few steps away when he saw the wallet in my hand.
Then the folded note.
Then Bo.
“What are you doing?” he asked sharply. “That’s my father’s dog.”
But he didn’t look at Bo the way Walter did in that photo.
Bo lifted his head just once.
And that was enough.
Because whatever command he’d been living under—the waiting, the road, the watchfulness—didn’t extend to this man the same way it had to Walter.
I felt Bo lean harder into my leg.
