"# *** The Garden of Brave Hearts: Pete the Puggle's Great Adventure at Stoneleigh ***"🐾
## Chapter One: The Morning the World Smelled Like Possibility The morning sun poured through the kitchen window like liquid gold, painting warm rectangles across the checkered floor where I lay with my belly pressed flat, chin resting on my paws, ears twitching at every sound. I'm Pete—just a small Puggle with short, velvety white fur and what Mariya calls "the most expressive eyes she's ever seen," especially with the playful streaks of makeup she sometimes traces around them for our family photo days. Today, though, my eyes were wide with something else entirely: anticipation. Because the moment Lenny said the word "Stoneleigh" at breakfast, my tail began wagging so violently it thumped against the cabinet like a tiny drum. "Stoneleigh: A Natural Garden," Lenny repeated, grinning over his coffee cup at Mariya. "Forty-two acres of meadows, woodlands, streams, and formal gardens. It's supposed to be breathtaking, Mariya. Perfect for the whole family." His eyes crinkled at the corners the way they always did when he was genuinely excited, and I could smell the warmth on his skin—that particular blend of cedar soap and fresh laundry that meant Dad was happy. He looked down at me and winked. "What do you think, little buddy? Ready for an adventure?" Roman, who had been slouching in his chair scrolling through his phone, suddenly looked up with genuine interest. "Wait, Stoneleigh? I've heard kids at school talking about it. There's supposed to be this incredible creek trail and all these hidden paths through the woods. Some people say there are deer and foxes and all kinds of wildlife." He leaned down and scratched behind my ears—that spot, the one that makes my left leg kick involuntarily—and I rewarded him with a lick across his knuckles. Roman was my best friend in the entire world, even though sometimes he pretended I was just a dog. I knew better. I saw the way he looked at me when he thought no one was watching, the way he whispered secrets to me at night when the house was dark and still. We were partners, Roman and I. Partners in everything. Mariya knelt beside me, cupping my face gently in her soft hands, her eyes—deep brown and always shimmering with that magical quality she had of seeing wonder in everything—meeting mine. "Oh, Pete," she murmured, "you're going to love it. There are flowers you've never smelled before, streams that sing over rocks, and trees so tall they seem to hold up the sky." She pressed her forehead to mine, and I breathed in her scent: lavender and vanilla and something earthy underneath, like soil after rain. "The world is so full of beautiful things, my sweet boy. Today we're going to discover some of them together." I felt my whole body vibrate with excitement. When Mariya spoke like that, it was as though the universe itself leaned in to listen. By the time we piled into the car—Lenny driving, Mariya riding shotgun with a basket of sandwiches and a thermos of lemonade, Roman in the back with me nestled against his side—I was practically trembling. The windows were cracked, and the rushing air carried a thousand scents: pine, exhaust, distant rain, a bakery somewhere along the route, the green perfume of grass being mowed in a yard we passed. I pressed my nose to the gap and inhaled so deeply my lungs ached. "You okay back there, Pete?" Roman asked, laughing softly. I looked up at him and blinked slowly, which was my way of saying *yes, more than okay, I'm alive in a way I can't even explain.* He seemed to understand, because he smiled and said, "Yeah. Me too, buddy." The drive felt eternal and instantaneous all at once, the way anticipation stretches time like taffy. When we finally turned onto a narrow road lined with ancient oaks whose branches arched overhead like the vaulted ceiling of a cathedral, I knew we had arrived. Through the windshield I caught my first glimpse: a wrought-iron sign reading "Stoneleigh: A Natural Garden" framed by cascading wisteria in full bloom, purple and dripping like jewels. My heart hammered. Lenny parked, and before anyone even unbuckled, I was whining and spinning in circles on the seat, a tiny white cyclone of joy. "Alright, alright, adventurer," Lenny chuckled, opening the door. The moment my paws touched the gravel path, I felt it—the electricity of a new world, buzzing up through my pads and into my bones. This was going to be the greatest day of my life. I was sure of it. --- ## Chapter Two: A Garden of Living Wonders The first thing that struck me was the sheer enormity of color. I had lived my whole life in a house with a modest backyard, a patch of green with a single maple tree and a garden bed where Mariya grew tomatoes and basil. But Stoneleigh? Stoneleigh was as though someone had taken every crayon in the box and scribbled across the entire earth. There were beds of coneflowers swaying in purple and pink, their spiky centers like tiny planets. There were sweeping meadows of native grasses that rippled like ocean waves in the breeze. There were formal gardens with geometric precision—boxwood hedges trimmed so cleanly they looked like green walls—and there were wild, untamed corners where flowers grew in glorious, chaotic profusion, as if nature itself had thrown a celebration and invited every color. "Look at this, Roman," Mariya called, kneeling beside a patch of milkweed where three monarch butterflies danced in slow circles. "These are the plants that monarch caterpillars eat. Without milkweed, there would be no monarchs. Everything in this garden is connected—every plant serves a purpose, every creature has a role." Her voice carried that reverent hush she used when something moved her deeply, and I could feel the truth of her words vibrating in the air like a hum. Roman crouched beside her, genuinely intrigued. "So if you removed even one thing, the whole system could collapse?" he asked. "Exactly," Mariya said, smiling. "It's like a family. Every member matters. Every bond holds something together." Lenny, standing a few feet away examining the bark of an enormous oak, overheard and called out with a grin: "Kind of like how without Pete, this family would fall apart. He's our milkweed." Roman groaned. "Dad, that might be your worst joke yet." Lenny clutched his chest in mock offense. "Worst? I thought it was blooming brilliant." I trotted ahead along the gravel path, nose working overtime. Every few steps a new scent arrested me: the honeyed sweetness of bee balm, the sharp cleanness of peppermint gone wild, the musky earthiness of a hollow log where something small and warm had recently rested. I paused at a stone bridge arching over a narrow creek, and there it was—the sound of water. My ears flattened. My tail, which had been a joyful flag moments before, slipped between my legs. Water. Moving water. I could see it down there, glinting silver between mossy rocks, babbling in that voice that sounded almost like speech but not quite, like a language I couldn't decode. My chest tightened. I took one step back. Then another. Roman noticed immediately. "Hey, Pete? You okay?" He knelt beside me, his hand warm and steady on my back. I was shaking. I couldn't help it. Water had always terrified me—the unpredictability of it, the way it moved without permission, the way it could pull and push and swallow. When I was very small, barely older than eight weeks, I had tumbled into the backyard wading pool and gone under, and the world had become muffled and dark and cold, and even though Mariaya had pulled me out within seconds, something inside me had locked a door and thrown away the key. Water meant danger. Water meant drowning. Water meant the end of everything safe and known. The creek below me chuckled against its stones, oblivious to my terror, and I whimpered—a small, involuntary sound that I was ashamed of the moment it left my throat. "Hey, hey, hey," Lenny said softly, approaching with that calm, unhurried energy he always brought to moments of crisis. He crouched beside Roman, and the two of them flanked me like sentinels. "Pete, listen to me," Lenny said, his voice low and steady as a heartbeat. "That water down there? It's shallow. It's gentle. It's not trying to hurt you. Fear is a tricky thing, buddy. It makes small things look enormous. It makes safe things feel dangerous. But you know what's stronger than fear?" I looked up at him with eyes that I knew were wide and glassy with worry. "Love," he said simply. "The love we have for you, and the love you have inside you. That's always stronger." Roman scratched my ears and added, "And you've got me, Pete. I'm not going anywhere. If you ever want to try facing it, I'll be right beside you. And if you're not ready today, that's okay too. No pressure." I leaned into his side, feeling his heartbeat against my fur, and slowly, slowly, my trembling eased. I wasn't ready. But something in their words had planted a seed—a tiny green shoot of courage poking through the dark soil of my fear. Maybe one day. Maybe even today. I looked at the creek again, and for the first time, I noticed how the light played on its surface, fracturing into a thousand tiny diamonds. It was beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful. --- ## Chapter Three: Enter Luna—The Most Magnificent Creature I Had Ever Seen We had wandered deeper into the garden, following a trail that wound through a grove of river birches whose pale, peeling bark glowed like parchment in the dappled light. Mariya was photographing wildflowers, Lenny was reading aloud from a small plaque about the history of the estate—it had once been a private family's home, gifted to the community as a public garden—and Roman was skipping stones in a wider section of the creek, each plunk and splash making me flinch but also, strangely, filling me with a curious longing I couldn't name. That's when I heard it: the sound of paws on gravel, but larger than mine, more deliberate, accompanied by a rhythmic jingle of tags. I turned, and the world tilted on its axis. She was magnificent. An Italian Mastiff—Cane Corso, I would later learn—with a coat the color of dark storm clouds, eyes like polished amber, and a build that was simultaneously powerful and elegant. She moved with a fluid grace that made my own waddling trot feel clumsy and small. Her face was noble, sculpted, with a gentle wrinkle across her brow that gave her an expression of perpetual contemplation, as though she were pondering the deepest questions of the universe with every step. She was walking beside an older woman who held her leash loosely, clearly trusting her completely. When the Mastiff's gaze swept the path and landed on me, her ears pricked forward and her tail—thick and muscular—began to swing in wide, slow arcs. My heart did something unprecedented. It stumbled, caught itself, and then raced ahead like a spooked rabbit. "Hi there!" the woman called cheerfully to my family. "This is Luna. She's a Cane Corso—Italian Mastiff. We're visiting from out of town. Luna loves this garden; we try to come every season." Luna's leash was released, and she bounded toward me with an enthusiasm that belied her dignified appearance. I froze. Not from fear this time, but from something far more bewildering. My legs felt like they were made of jelly. My tail wagged of its own accord—furiously, uncontrollably—as though it had broken free from my brain's command and was operating on its own protocol. Luna skidded to a stop in front of me, lowered her head in a playful bow, and barked—deep and resonant, a sound that vibrated in my chest like a bass drum. Then she spun and dashed away, pausing to look back over her shoulder with those amber eyes as if to say, *Well? Are you coming?* Go with her? Me? I glanced at Roman, who was watching with an amused smirk. "Go on, Romeo," he whispered, and I felt the heat of embarrassment bloom beneath my fur. Had he seen it on my face? The awe? The ridiculous, fluttery thing happening in my stomach? I looked back at Luna, who was now doing a little dance of impatience, her paws lifting and falling in a delicate prance. Something inside me surged—a giddy, reckless bravery that had nothing to do with facing fears and everything to do with this extraordinary creature who seemed, impossibly, to want to play with me. I bolted after her, my short legs churning, my ears flying back, my heart singing a song I'd never heard before but somehow knew all the words to. We raced through a meadow of black-eyed Susans, their golden faces bobbing as we streaked past. We tumbled together in a patch of soft grass, rolling over each other in a joyful tangle of legs and tails and breathless pants. Luna was gentle despite her size, adjusting her strength so that our play was always fun, never frightening. She let me win our impromptu races, slowing just enough at the finish so I could surge ahead with a triumphant bark. We played hide-and-seek among the boxwood hedges—her seeking skills were extraordinary, her nose working methodically, and when she found me she would nuzzle my neck with a warmth that made my entire body tingle. "You're fast for a little guy," she said—yes, said, because in the language of play and connection that transcends species, every yip and bow and wag carries meaning as clear as speech. "And you're brave," she added. "I can feel it. There's something brave in you, even if you don't know it yet." I ducked my head, shy, and she licked my ear. I thought I might never breathe again. --- ## Chapter Four: The Path That Disappeared It happened the way disasters always do—gradually, then all at once. Luna and I had been chasing each other along a narrow trail that branched off from the main path, following a scent trail so intoxicating that neither of us thought to question where it led. It was something wild and musky, earthy and ancient, and it pulled us forward like an invisible thread. The trail curved, narrowed, dipped through a thicket of ferns that rose above my head like a green canopy, and when we emerged on the other side, the trail was gone. Not overgrown. Not hidden. Just... gone. As though it had never existed. In its place was dense woodland—old growth, thick with underbrush and shadow, the canopy so heavy that the sunlight filtered through in thin, pale ribbons that barely reached the forest floor. I stopped. My ears swiveled. I listened for the sounds of my family—Lenny's voice, Mariya's laugh, Roman's footsteps on gravel—but there was nothing. Nothing but the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird I didn't recognize, and the unsettling creak of branches rubbing together in the wind. My heart began to pound, each beat a fist striking the inside of my ribs. *Where are they? Where's Roman? Where's Lenny and Mariya?* I spun in a circle, searching for any landmark—the stone bridge, the meadow of black-eyed Susans, the grove of river birches—but everything looked different from this angle. The trees here were taller, darker, their bark rough and furrowed like the faces of ancient giants. The undergrowth pressed in close, brambles catching at my fur, ferns brushing my belly. I was small. I was alone. And the forest was enormous. Luna pressed her side against mine, and the warmth of her body was an anchor in the churning sea of my panic. "Pete," she said quietly, her amber eyes calm and steady, "breathe. You're not alone. I'm right here." But I could hear the slight tension in her voice, the almost imperceptible tightness that told me she was worried too. "My family," I whimpered, and the words came out as a thin, broken sound. "I can't find my family. What if they left without me? What if they don't realize I'm gone? What if—" The thoughts spiraled, each one darker than the last, feeding off my fear like flames on kindling. I had always been terrified of being separated from them. They were my world—Lenny's steady strength, Mariya's tender wonder, Roman's protective playfulness. Without them, I was just a small dog in a very large, very indifferent world. The forest seemed to lean in closer, its shadows deepening, its silence pressing against my ears like cotton. "We'll find them," Luna said with a firmness that cut through my spiral. "But we need to think clearly. Panic is a fog, Pete. It makes you see danger where there might be a path. Let's use what we have—our noses, our ears, our instincts. Your family can't be far. We were only running for a few minutes." She was right. I knew she was right. But knowing and feeling are two very different rivers, and right now the river of feeling was a torrent, dark and cold and pulling me under. I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe. *In through the nose. Out through the mouth.* Mariya had taught me that once, pressing her hand gently against my chest during a thunderstorm, whispering it like a lullaby. I breathed. And beneath the fear, beneath the pounding of my heart, I caught it: the faintest trace of Lenny's scent—cedar soap, fresh laundry, coffee—carried on the wind like a whisper from home. "That way," I said, opening my eyes, nodding toward a gap in the undergrowth. "I can smell them. I think I can smell them." Luna smiled—or the Mastiff equivalent of a smile, a softening of her noble features, a brightness in her amber eyes. "Then let's go," she said. "Together." And we plunged into the deep woods, side by side, with nothing but a thread of scent and a fragile thread of hope to guide us. --- ## Chapter Five: The Dark Beneath the Trees The deeper we went, the darker it grew. The canopy thickened overhead until the sky was little more than a memory, a pale suggestion of light filtering through layers of leaves and branches like light through stained glass in an abandoned church. The air changed too—it became cooler, damper, heavy with the scent of moss and decaying leaves and something else, something old and primal that smelled like the earth itself was breathing. My paws sank into soft soil. Mushrooms clustered at the bases of trees like tiny, pale sentinels. And the shadows—they were no longer just absences of light. They felt alive. They felt watchful. They felt like they were waiting for something. I have always been afraid of the dark. Not the gentle dark of bedtime, when Mariya leaves the hallway light on and the house settles into its familiar nighttime rhythms. That dark is a friend. That dark is a blanket. But this dark—the deep, ancient dark of a forest where sunlight surrenders and shadows rule—this dark was something else entirely. It pressed against my eyes. It filled my ears with phantom sounds: the skittering of unseen creatures, the groan of bending wood, the trickle of water that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Every shadow could be a predator. Every sound could be a threat. My imagination—usually my greatest gift, the engine that powered my stories and adventures—became my worst enemy, conjuring monsters from every silhouette, dangers from every rustle. "I don't like this," I admitted to Luna, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's so dark. What if something's watching us? What if something's following us?" Luna walked close beside me, her shoulder brushing mine with every step. "Something *is* watching us," she said matter-of-factly, and my blood went cold. "But it's not a monster, Pete. It's the forest. The forest watches everything that enters it. Not because it's hungry or cruel, but because it's alive, and living things pay attention. The trees are watching you the way your family watches you—with curiosity, with patience. The birds track us because they're protecting their nests. The squirrels chatter because they're telling each other we're here. None of it is malicious. All of it is simply... life, being life." She paused, then added, "The dark isn't your enemy, Pete. It's just a different kind of light. A quieter kind. If you let it, it can show you things the daylight never could." Her words were beautiful, and I wanted to believe them, but the fear was a physical thing—a knot in my stomach, a tightness in my throat, a tremor in my legs that wouldn't stop. I thought of Lenny's words from that morning: *Fear makes small things look enormous. It makes safe things feel dangerous.* Was that what was happening? Were these shadows just shadows? Were these sounds just sounds? I forced myself to look more carefully, to push past the panic and truly see. And slowly, miraculously, the darkness began to reveal its secrets. I saw a firefly—a single, pulsing point of gold—drifting through the shadows like a wandering star. Then another. Then a dozen, until the air was filled with their soft, rhythmic glow, turning the darkened forest into a cathedral of light. I saw a fox in the distance, slipping between trees with liquid grace, its eyes catching the firefly glow for a single, electric moment before it vanished. I saw a stream—heard it first, that babbling voice—and my stomach clenched with the old fear, but Luna padded toward it and drank calmly, and I watched the water slide over her tongue, clean and clear and harmless, and something inside me shifted. Not healed. Not conquered. But shifted. "You're doing it," Luna whispered. "You're walking through your fear. That's all courage is, Pete—not the absence of fear, but the decision to keep walking when fear is screaming at you to stop." I looked at the fireflies, at the stream, at Luna's amber eyes reflecting all of it, and I took one step forward. Then another. The darkness didn't feel quite so dark anymore. --- ## Chapter Six: The Creek Crossing The stream grew wider as we followed it, fed by invisible tributaries that murmured beneath the undergrowth. What had been a trickle became a brook, and what had been a brook became a genuine creek, its water moving with more purpose and volume, sliding over rocks with increasing confidence. We needed to cross it. Luna assessed the situation with her calm, practical gaze. "It's maybe eight inches deep at the shallowest point," she said. "See those flat rocks? We can use them as stepping stones. It's nothing dangerous, Pete. I promise." But my body didn't care about her promises. My body remembered the wading pool, the muffled silence of going under, the cold dark water closing over my head. My legs locked. My breath hitched. I stood at the edge of the creek and stared at the water as though it were a living thing, a hand reaching up from the depths to drag me down. "You can do this," Luna said, but her voice came from far away, muffled by the roaring in my ears. The water laughed and bubbled and rushed, and it sounded mocking to my terrified mind, as if the creek knew my fear and was daring me to step in. I could feel my heart in my throat, in my temples, in the tips of my paws. Every nerve screamed at me to turn back, to find another way, to run. But there was no other way. The creek stretched across our path like a barrier, and on the other side—on the other side, I could smell it again—Lenny's scent, Mariya's lavender, Roman's familiar warmth. Home was across the water. Family was across the water. And I was stuck on this side, shaking, whimpering, hating myself for my weakness. That's when I heard it—his voice, distant but unmistakable, cutting through the forest like a beacon. "PETE! PETE, BUDDY, WHERE ARE YOU?" Roman. Roman was looking for me. Roman was out there somewhere on the other side of this creek, calling my name, and I could hear the worry in his voice, the love wrapped around every syllable. Something inside me cracked open—not broken, but freed, like a seed splitting its shell to reach for the sun. I thought of everything Lenny had said about love being stronger than fear. I thought of Mariya pressing her forehead to mine and whispering about the beautiful things in the world. I thought of Roman scratching that spot behind my ears and whispering secrets in the dark. I thought of Luna, who had walked beside me through shadow and fear without ever once leaving my side. And I realized that the water in front of me wasn't a monster. It was just water. Just a creek. Just a thing in the world that I could choose to walk through or choose to let stop me. "I'm coming, Roman!" I barked—loud, raw, full-throated—and before my fear could argue, before my body could lock up again, I placed one paw on the first stone. It was cool and slick beneath my pad. The water rushed around it, kissing my fur, and I flinched but didn't retreat. Second stone. Third. The water was deeper here, lapping at my legs, cold and insistent, and my breath came in short, sharp gasps, but I kept moving. Luna padded behind me, her presence a warm reassurance against my back. Halfway across, my paw slipped. I stumbled. Water splashed against my chest and I yelped, instinctively freezing, the old terror surging like a wave. But then I heard Roman again, closer now: "PETE! I HEAR YOU! I'M COMING!" And I dug deep—deeper than I've ever dug—into that place where love lives, where courage grows, and I pulled myself up, found the next stone, and stepped. And stepped. And stepped. Until my paws touched the other bank, the solid, muddy, beautiful other bank, and I was across. I was across the creek. I had faced the water, and the water had not won. Luna landed beside me and nuzzled my neck. "You brave, beautiful little dog," she murmured, and I felt tears—actual tears—prickling behind my eyes. I had done it. I had walked through fear itself and come out the other side, soaking wet and trembling, but alive and whole and impossibly proud. --- ## Chapter Seven: Found We crashed through the last stretch of underbrush—me soaking wet and muddy, Luna elegant even in disarray—and burst into a clearing where the main path wound through a sunny glade of wildflowers. And there he was. Roman. Standing on the path with his hands cupped around his mouth, his face pale with worry, his voice hoarse from calling my name. When he saw me, his entire body sagged with relief, as though an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "PETE!" he screamed, and then he was running, dropping to his knees, scooping me up against his chest so tightly I could feel his heart hammering against my ribs. "Oh my God, Pete, oh my God, I was so scared. We couldn't find you. We looked everywhere. I thought—" His voice cracked, and he pressed his face into my fur, and I felt the warm dampness of his tears. I licked his cheek, his chin, his nose—every part of him I could reach—and my whole body vibrated with the overwhelming joy of being found. "I'm okay," I wanted to say. "I'm okay, Roman. I was scared too. I was so scared. But I was brave. I walked through the dark and I crossed the water and I found my way back to you. I was brave, Roman. I was brave." Of course, what came out was a series of yips and whimpers and frantic licks, but Roman understood. He always understood. "I know, buddy," he whispered, his hand stroking my wet fur, his breath warm against my ear. "I know you were brave. I know you were scared. I'm so sorry I let you get separated from us. It won't happen again. I promise." He pulled back and looked at me, really looked, and I saw the guilt in his eyes, the self-recrimination. I pressed my nose to his nose—our special gesture, the one that meant *I love you, I forgive you, we're okay*—and his face crumpled into a tearful smile. Lenny and Mariya came running down the path moments later, and the reunion was a symphony of voices and arms and embraces. "My baby!" Mariya cried, gathering me into her arms and kissing my head, her tears falling onto my fur like warm rain. "Oh, Pete, we were terrified. We thought something had happened to you." Lenny knelt beside us, his strong hand resting on my back, his eyes bright with unshed tears he was too proud to let fall. "You found your way back," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You actually found your way back. I told you, Pete. I told you that love is stronger than fear. You proved it today." Then Luna's owner appeared, breathless and worried, and Luna trotted over to her with a joyful bark, and there was a second reunion happening alongside ours—two families, reconnected, the relief and gratitude so thick in the air you could almost touch it. Roman looked at Luna, then at me, and a knowing grin spread across his face. "So," he said, one eyebrow raised, "you made a friend, huh?" I felt the blush bloom beneath my white fur and ducked my head. Luna glanced over her shoulder at me, her amber eyes soft and warm, and gave a single, slow wag of her tail. It was, I thought, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. "She's amazing," I wanted to tell him. "She walked through the dark with me. She believed in me when I couldn't believe in myself. She made me brave." Roman seemed to read all of this on my face, because he laughed softly and said, "Yeah, Pete. I can tell." He looked at Luna's owner. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you for your dog. She took care of him when we couldn't." The woman smiled and placed a hand on Luna's head. "That's Luna. She's always been a guardian. It's in her blood." And looking at Luna—noble, strong, gentle—I believed it completely. --- ## Chapter Eight: Home Is Not a Place—It's Who You're With We sat together on a stone bench at the edge of a garden terrace overlooking a sweeping meadow, the late afternoon sun gilding everything in amber and rose. Lenny had his arm around Mariya, who was feeding me small pieces of sandwich from the basket they'd brought. Roman sat beside me, his hand resting lightly on my back, and Luna lay at my feet, her head on her paws, her amber eyes half-closed in contentment. Luna's owner sat nearby, sharing lemonade with Lenny and trading stories about their respective dogs' misadventures. The garden hummed with life around us—bees droning in the lavender, birds threading songs through the canopy, the creek in the distance singing its endless, peaceful song—and I felt, for the first time in my life, that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. "So," Lenny said, looking down at me with those warm, crinkled eyes, "what did we learn today, team?" Roman spoke first, surprising himself, I think, with how seriously he answered. "I learned that I need to pay more attention. Pete's not just a pet—he's family. And when family gets lost, it's the worst feeling in the world. I should have been watching him more closely." His hand tightened on my back, and
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