Chapter 3: Chaos at the Market

That day, I’d asked, half-laughing, half-shocked,

"You’re telling me... you ate 40 hot dogs in one day?" (Pause.) I could barely keep a straight face.

He looked so proud. If dogs could grin, he would’ve.

From then on, his daily $1 allowance was never enough. Who was I kidding?

I went to ask the store owners where he was spending his money. They just shook their heads, half laughing, half annoyed, and told me Peanut would bring different little dogs in to eat with him. They ate everything in sight, but hot dogs were the clear favorite.

It was a parade of strays—scruffy terriers, nervous chihuahuas, one old beagle with a limp. Peanut led them in, tails wagging, like a furry conga line. The clerks joked he was running a soup kitchen for the four-legged down-and-out.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I just upped his daily limit. I loved treating my little dog and his friends, too.

Sometimes, I’d watch from across the street as they crowded around the hot dog stand, Peanut in the middle, sharing his bounty. It made me proud, even as I shook my head at his generosity. He was a better neighbor than most people I knew.

Suddenly, I snapped out of it.

The FitBit. The tracker on Peanut’s paw had GPS!

It hit me like a shot of espresso. I fumbled for my phone, heart hammering. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped it. Hope surged through me, wild and desperate.

I opened the app, hands shaking. Last ping: the city’s farmer’s market.

The map glowed blue in the twilight, a little paw print blinking at the edge of the market. It was a shot in the dark, but it was something. I grabbed my keys, adrenaline spiking, and tore out of the driveway like a bat out of hell.

This time, I snatched my keys and bolted.

The dogs bounded after me, barking encouragement. For the first time all day, I felt it. Maybe—just maybe—we had a chance.

"Ma’am!"

The voice made me skid to a halt. I turned, breathless, and saw the neighbor’s little girl standing on the sidewalk, her backpack slung over one shoulder, dirt smudged on her cheeks. She looked so small in the fading light, but her eyes were fierce.

She saw how tense I was and leapt out, "I’ll help you, ma’am!"

I hesitated, crouched down and met her red, puffy eyes.

Her lower lip trembled, but she stood her ground, fists balled. She reminded me of myself at her age—stubborn, scrappy, refusing to back down, no matter what.

"Emma," I said gently, "I promise I’ll bring Peanut and Muffin home."

I tried to sound brave, hoping she’d buy it. Her shoulders sagged, and for a second, I thought she might cry again. But she just nodded, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

Emma looked down, disappointed.

She kicked at a crack in the sidewalk, looking crushed. I wanted to scoop her up and tell her everything would be okay, but I knew better than to make promises I couldn’t keep.

But Duke and the other dogs were already crowding me—they weren’t going anywhere.

They pressed close, tails wagging, barking softly as if to say, "We’re with you." Even the shyest pup stood his ground, eyes shining. For a moment, it felt like we were a real team—a ragtag rescue squad, ready for anything.

"Don’t go alone! Take us!" "We don’t leave friends behind!"

Their voices echoed in my head, stubborn and loyal. I managed a shaky smile. Their courage rubbed off on me.

...

When I reached the farmer’s market, the sun was sinking behind the rooftops.