Part 1: The Morning My Dog Wouldn’t Stop Scratching at the Door

It was a sweater.

A soft, yellow sweater with tiny pearl buttons.

My legs nearly gave out. I grabbed the doorframe, my breath caught somewhere between my chest and my throat.

“That can’t be,” I whispered.

I bent down to pick it up, my hands shaking so badly I could barely touch the fabric. Before I could lift it, Baxter scooped it back up and took a step away from me.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, my voice breaking. “Give it to me.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he turned his head toward the backyard, eyes focused, intent. Then, without hesitation, he took off.

“Baxter!” I called, scrambling to slip on my shoes.

I didn’t stop to grab a jacket. I didn’t think about the cold or the damp air. I followed him through the yard, the sweater clenched tightly in my hand.

He slipped through a narrow gap in the wooden fence, the same opening Lily used to squeeze through during the summers to play in the empty lot next door. I hadn’t thought about that place in months.