TWENTY-SEVEN
More than a week without Hank had become its own kind of phantom ache.
Kieran kept expecting to hear the jingle of his collar, the scratch of paws on the hardwood, the soft whine that meant I need something but I’m being polite about it. Every time he came home, his brain forgot for one split second and expected both dogs to greet him at the door.
Then he’d see only Mabel, tail wagging but eyes searching, and the reality would settle over him again.
They’d done everything. Flyers plastered on every pole within a five-mile radius. Calls to every shelter, every vet, every animal control office in the county. Posts on neighborhood apps and lost pet forums.
He’d even posted on his Substack, a departure from his usual tone, no jokes, but a photo of Hank and a simple plea: If you’re in the San Diego area and you see this face, please reach out.
He’s a springer spaniel, brown and white, answers to Hank.
He’s anxious and probably scared and I just need him home.
The responses had been overwhelming. Readers he’d never met sharing the post, sending tips, offering to help search.
But it hadn’t worked yet.
Rory had been gone for three days at a work conference in Santa Cruz. He’d texted every morning and every night, checking in, asking if there’d been any updates.
There never were.
Kieran threw himself into writing, anything to avoid staring at the empty dog bed.
Thursday afternoon, he was at a coffee shop when his phone buzzed.
RORY NEIGHBOR: Conference ends tomorrow. I have a question.
His fingers tightened around the phone. He typed back quickly.
KIERAN: Okay…
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
RORY NEIGHBOR: How do you feel about camping?
Kieran blinked at his screen.
KIERAN: Like…in a tent?
RORY NEIGHBOR: Or under the stars. I’m flexible.
KIERAN: Why?
RORY NEIGHBOR: I was thinking about Joshua Tree this weekend.
Middle of nowhere. No distractions. I know it may not be the weekend for it, but there’s a meteor shower Saturday night.
Figured a guy with Orion tattooed on his arm might want to see the actual sky for once.
I’ll even let you be in charge of cooking.
Kieran stared at the messages, his thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Camping. In the desert. With Rory.
His brain started cataloging concerns. Hank was still out there. What if someone found him while Kieran was gone? What if there was an update and he wasn’t here to respond?
KIERAN: Can I think about it? I want to, but I don’t know if I can leave while Hank’s still missing.
RORY NEIGHBOR: Of course. No pressure. Just let me know.
Kieran set his phone down and stared at his laptop screen without seeing it.
He wanted to go. God, he wanted to go. But the thought of being hours away, unreachable, while Hank was still lost seemed like abandonment.
He packed up his things and headed home, the decision weighing on him.
The call came that evening, as the sun was starting to dip toward the horizon.
Kieran had been making dinner…or trying to. The tortillas were warming, the meat was browning, and he was attempting to chop vegetables without losing a finger when his phone rang. He almost didn’t answer.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Kieran Doyle?” a woman asked on the other end.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“This is Sarah from the Rancho Coastal Humane Society. I’m calling about a dog we have here—a springer spaniel? Liver and white, male, no collar but he’s microchipped. The chip came back registered to you.”
Kieran set down the knife. His hands were shaking.
“Hank?” His voice came out strangled. “You found Hank?”
“If that’s his name, then yes. He showed up in someone’s yard this morning in Solana Beach. Been hanging around all day. The homeowner finally called us.”
“Solana Beach? I live in Encinitas!” Kieran said. “Is he okay? Is he hurt?”
“Totally fine. A little dirty, maybe a bit thin, but no injuries. How he got that far without getting hit by a car is beyond me. Can you come pick him up?” Sarah asked. “We’re open until seven tonight.”
Kieran looked at the stove, the half-cooked dinner, the mess on the counter.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
He turned everything off, grabbed his keys, and was out the door before his brain fully caught up with his body.
The Humane Society was a low concrete building tucked behind a strip mall, and Kieran practically ran inside.
Sarah met him at the front desk, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a name tag that matched her voice.
“Mr. Doyle?”
“Yes. Where is he?”
“Follow me.”
She led him through a door into the back area where the kennels were. The smell hit him, antiseptic and wet dog and something faintly sad.
And then he heard it.
Barking. Hank’s bark. High-pitched and insistent and unmistakably his.
“He’s been doing that since we brought him in,” Sarah said, smiling. “I think he knew you were coming.”
She stopped in front of a kennel, and there he was.
Hank.
Thinner than Kieran remembered, his coat matted and dirty, but whole. Alive. Tail wagging so hard his entire back end shook, his body pressed against the kennel door like he could push through it by force of want alone.
Sarah opened the kennel door, and Hank bolted out.
He hit Kieran at full speed, chest height, no coordination, all paws, and Kieran dropped to his knees on the concrete floor.
Hank was everywhere at once, licking his face, his hands, his neck, whining in that high keening way he did when something was too big for his body to hold.
He circled Kieran twice, then pressed himself against his chest like he was trying to burrow inside.
“Hey, buddy,” Kieran said, his voice breaking. “Hey. I missed you. I missed you so much.”
Hank’s tail didn’t stop. He pressed his skull into the hollow of Kieran’s throat and stayed there, body trembling.
Kieran buried his face in Hank’s fur. He smelled like dirt and other dogs and ten days of wherever he’d been, and underneath all of it, still, the distinct animal smell that was him.
Kieran wrapped his arms around him and held on. The concrete was cold under his knees and a stranger was watching and none of it mattered.
Sarah stood back, giving them space.
“How did you get so far?” Kieran murmured. “What were you thinking?”
Hank licked his ear in response.
He signed the paperwork in a daze, barely reading it, and walked Hank out to the car on a spare leash Sarah had given him.
Hank jumped into the back seat like he’d never left, circling twice before settling down with a satisfied huff.
Kieran looked at him in the rearview mirror. “You’re grounded. Forever. You know that, right?”
Hank’s tail thumped against the seat.
When Kieran pulled into the driveway, Mabel was already at the window.
She must’ve heard the car, or maybe she smelled him, because by the time Kieran opened the back to let Hank out, she was at the front door, barking frantically.
Kieran let her out, and what followed was pure chaos.
Mabel and Hank collided in the driveway like magnets, circling each other, sniffing frantically. Then they took off, sprinting across the yard, around the side of the house, back again, like it was the first time they’d ever seen each other.
Kieran watched them reunite, laughing despite the tears still wet on his face.
After a few minutes of mayhem, he corralled them both inside, filled their bowls with food and water, and watched them eat side by side.
Hank was home.
It hit him so hard he had to sit down on the kitchen floor.
Then he thought of Rory.
He grabbed his phone.
KIERAN: They found Hank.
The response came almost immediately.
RORY NEIGHBOR: Wait. Seriously??
KIERAN: Just picked him up. He’s home. He’s okay.
RORY NEIGHBOR: Holy shit. Kieran. That’s incredible.
KIERAN: I know. I’m still shaking.
RORY NEIGHBOR: I bet. How is he?
KIERAN: Thin. Dirty. Perfect. Currently inhaling food like he hasn’t eaten in a week. Which he probably hasn’t.
RORY NEIGHBOR: I’m so glad.
Kieran stared at the screen, fighting back the tears welling in his eyes. Then typed:
KIERAN: So about that camping trip…
RORY NEIGHBOR: Yeah?
KIERAN: I’m in. Can I bring the dogs?
RORY NEIGHBOR: Deal. Saturday. 7am. Bring the whole family.
KIERAN: That’s unconscionably early.
RORY NEIGHBOR: The desert waits for no man.
KIERAN: Fine. But bring good coffee.
RORY NEIGHBOR: Deal.
Kieran set his phone down, a smile tugging at his lips.
He looked over at Hank and Mabel, now sprawled on the living room floor in a tangle of limbs, exhausted from their reunion.
He packed Friday afternoon with the efficiency of someone who’d spent years moving from place to place—minimal clothes, practical choices, nothing he’d miss if it got dirty or lost. He checked on both dogs, made sure he’d packed their bowls, their leashes, the treats they liked.
Extra food for Hank, who needed to put weight back on.
He posted a quick update on Substack—a new photo of Hank asleep on the couch with the caption: He’s home. Thank you to everyone who shared, searched, and sent good thoughts. I owe you all a drink. Or several.
The comments filled with celebration. Heart emojis and exclamation points and people who’d never met Hank acting like they’d personally invested in his safe return.
Kieran read through them, smiling, then closed his laptop and set his alarm for 6:30 a.m.