We have covered miles. We have spent our entire day armed with fliers, duct tape and a stapler. We have walked the rows of a lonely shelter. We have not found Love.
The puppy belongs to Atticus. He misses her. He has told me so repeatedly throughout the day. He believes her stolen. We drive slowly by unknown shapes along the roadside and I distract him with conversation while eying the remains of the night, hoping that she isn’t there among them.
I’ve exhausted all avenues and covered every alley. She is not running in the street or dead upon it. She is out there somewhere and now we wait. We wait for Love to come home.