That realization settled heavier than the reunion itself. He didn’t smell like rain or dumpsters or asphalt. He smelled like structured feeding schedules. Regular baths. Routine. Someone had maintained him. Her fingers reached his collar. It wasn’t the worn leather strap Michael had once adjusted with pride. This one was reinforced, darker, thicker — built to last.
Mounted flush against the inner band was a compact black device, secured seamlessly against the material. As her thumb traced its edge, Rex suddenly jerked his head sideways. Then he tried to scratch at the collar with his hind paw. Once. Twice. Frustrated. He shook his head sharply and tried again, twisting awkwardly as if trying to catch the strap against the pavement.