Each time, he pulled over, got out, and checked. Once, it was a scrappy terrier. Another time, just a shadow near the bins. He checked alleyways and peeked behind dumpsters, looking for the glint of a purple collar—one his wife had lovingly sewn by hand. But there was nothing. No Lola.
Disheartened, he returned home late, barely speaking. Before bed, he pressed his palms together, whispering a quiet prayer. He hoped she was warm, somewhere safe, not hurt or alone. More than anything, he wished he’d look up tomorrow at 11 and see her trotting down the road, leaf in mouth.