Chapter 4: Healing and Hope

The whole place was bathed in golden light, stalls closing up for the day, the air smelled like onions and funnel cakes. I wove through the crowds, scanning every face, every shadow, desperate for a sign.

I went to the last spot Peanut’s tracker had pinged.

The app took me to a grimy spot behind the fruit stands, where a man in a faded baseball cap sat beside a battered pickup truck. The cages at his feet made my stomach turn—selling dogs out of filthy wire cages.

A middle-aged man was sitting at a stall, selling dogs out of filthy wire cages.

He looked up as I approached, suspicion flickering in his eyes. He was the kind of guy you’d cross the street to avoid—rough hands, mean mouth, reeking of stale cigarettes. His voice cut through the air, sharp and nasty, as he barked orders at the dogs.

Over a dozen scrawny pups were jammed together. My heart hammered as I searched for Peanut’s brown eyes. But all I saw were frightened faces, pressed against the bars, pleading for help.

"Muffin’s in there!" "They took Peanut and Muffin together."

Duke nudged my leg, his gaze locked on a cage in the back. I followed his line of sight, hope flickering in my chest.

Duke pressed against my leg, staring at the cage. At the very bottom, a coffee-colored poodle looked half-dead. Under her belly, I glimpsed something: the FitBit I’d strapped to Peanut.

It was a gut punch. The poodle barely moved, her sides rising and falling in shallow breaths. But there, half-hidden by fur, was the familiar band of the FitBit. Relief and terror crashed over me all at once.

All the dogs grew agitated.

They barked and whined, pacing in circles. The tension was electric—like they all knew what was at stake.

"Let’s save Muffin first!"

One of the pups barked, urgent and scared. The others echoed, tails lashing, ready to spring into action.

"No," Duke said, calm as ever. He shot a look at the security guards, lurking by the truck.

Duke’s voice cut through the chaos, steady as a rock. He gave me a look that said, "Trust me."

He looked to his silent right-hand dog. "Doc, any ideas?"

Doc was a border collie, fur so long it brushed the dirty floor. Even collies were strays these days? I thought, shaking my head.

Doc looked like he’d just wandered off a sheep farm—his eyes were sharp, coat a mess, but you could tell he was smart.

Doc thought a moment. "Here’s what we’ll do..."

He waved a paw. "Hey! Somebody’s dog got loose!"

With my sudden shriek, the house dogs burst out in all directions. Security guards scrambled after them. The dogs weaved through crowds, leapt onto stalls, sent the whole market into chaos.

It was chaos, but it was perfect. Dogs darted between legs, upending crates, sending apples and tomatoes rolling across the pavement. Shoppers shouted, vendors cursed, and the guards gave chase, slipping and sliding in the mess.

The vendor, panicking, slammed the cage shut and started packing up. Doc wasn’t done.

He watched, eyes narrowed, as the man fumbled with the latch. Doc’s tail twitched, calculating.

"My turn."

The moment I heard his voice in my head, Doc leapt up and smacked the guy right in the nose.

It was a clean shot—right across the nose. The man yelped, stumbling back, clutching his face. The other dogs cheered, their barks echoing through the market.