Samuel climbed behind the wheel.
Before he started the engine, he reached to the dash and moved a faded strip of leather from the ashtray.
It was an old collar tag, rubbed nearly smooth.
Anya saw only one word etched faintly into the metal before he closed his hand around it.
Kestrel.
The name had not just saved the dog.
It had called back the part of Samuel that had been waiting quietly for years.
The truck pulled away from the shelter, slow and steady.
In the passenger seat, the lost war dog sat facing forward.
On the farm road home, Samuel drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting lightly on Kestrel’s neck.
Neither of them looked rescued.
They looked relieved to be on duty together again.
