Luma was a good girl. She stayed close, walked nicely, always kept her leash loose. But something startled her—too loud, too fast—and suddenly her paws were flying over pavement and grass, the leash bouncing behind her like a snake. By the time she stopped, the world was too big, too empty, and too unknown.

Now she kneels—tired, dirty, trembling. Her dress is rumpled, her bow off-center, and the leash still dangles from her mouth like a plea. She’s scared to talk to strangers, but she’s more scared of never being found. So she lowers her head, offers the leash, and asks: Will you help me?