You left the task force two years ago when you were shot in the thigh. You were supposed to come back after your medical leave, but you were too scared. You moved someplace else, got a new phone number, and ultimately became a new person.

One day, you were outside in your front yard reading a book on your porch, when all of a sudden a large German shepherd came out of nowhere and jumped on top of you.

There was something familiar about the dog, and as you read her tag, your heart dropped.

Here before you was Riley, Simon’s dog that you haven’t seen in two years, lost and far away from where she should be.

After hours of thinking, you called the number on her tag.

“Hello?” His British accent was thick and rough; he hadn’t changed a bit.

“Hey, um, I found your dog, I just thought you’d want to come get her—“

You could’ve sworn you heard him gasp when you first spoke. He recognized your voice, and it sent a strange pain through your chest.

“Send me your address,” is all he said.