That night, curiosity got the better of Elena. She went to the volunteer office and pulled Benny’s adoption file from the cabinet.
The first page listed the usual details—breed mix, approximate age, vaccination records—but halfway down, a note in a different handwriting caught her eye: *Surrendered after owner’s accident—no family contact.*
The intake photo showed a thinner version of the same dog, eyes dulled, sitting behind chain-link. Beneath the date: *Transferred from City Animal Control—found near highway mile marker 84.*
Elena frowned. That stretch of road was barely ten miles from the hospital. She clicked through the archive photos from that month—wreckage, emergency lights, a memorial cross half hidden by weeds.
The surname on the case file matched the one printed on Maya’s chart. Elena’s hands went cold.
She read the note again: *Owner deceased on arrival. Companion animal rescued at scene.*
“Oh, Benny,” she whispered. “You didn’t just find a job. You found your way home.”
Somewhere down the hall, the elevator chimed. Benny lifted his head and looked toward the sound, as if he, too, remembered what the world had taken and quietly returned it.
