Madison’s address was on the collar tags. The neighborhood was worn-down but lived-in. I knocked on the front door just after dinner.
A man answered. His face paled when he saw me.
“Are you missing a dog?”
He shook. “Daisy? You found her?”
“She’s alive, recovering. Surgery went as well as it could.”
Inside, Madison appeared—small, hopeful.
“Are you the biker who found Daisy?”
He started crying.
“I couldn’t bear to put her down. I just didn’t have the means. My wife died. I work two jobs. Debt suffocated me. Madison thinks Daisy ran away. It was easier than admitting I abandoned her.”
“She’s at my place,” I told them. “She’s living again.”
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