“He’s gone!” she screamed. “Leo’s gone!”
Leo was her five-year-old son. A sweet, non-verbal boy on the autism spectrum. He was a known wanderer.
“I just turned my back for a second,” she sobbed. “He unlocked the back gate. It’s getting dark. It’s cold…”
I called 911, but as I was talking, I felt a presence at my side. Ares.
He wasn’t pacing. He wasn’t waiting. He was ready. The fog of confusion was gone. His ears were pricked, his body coiled. He heard the panic in her voice, smelled the adrenaline, and the old soldier reported for duty.
“Jenna, give me something of his,” I said, my voice shaking. “A shoe, a shirt, anything.”
She ran and brought back a small blue sneaker. The sirens were distant. I grabbed the old leather harness I’d found in my car—the one he’d worn on his intake day. As I buckled it, his entire body changed. The stiffness in his hips seemed to vanish.
I presented the sneaker. “Ares,” I said, my voice firm. “Find.”
His nose barely touched the shoe. He took one long inhale, lifted his head, and let out a single, sharp bark. He was off.
He didn’t run. He worked. He moved with a methodical purpose, nose to the ground, ignoring the street, heading straight for the dense, dark patch of woods behind our neighborhood. He moved with a limp, but he never faltered.
