I almost drove past her. From inside my truck, the starving dog beside County Road Nine looked less like an animal and more like a dark piece of trash caught in the dry weeds. Her ribs showed through her coat, her hips jutted sharply beneath the skin, and an infected wound near her hindquarters was covered with matted fur and flies. She did not bark or chase my truck. She simply lifted her head and watched me pass.

“No.”

The technician started pushing her inside, then stopped.

“We need a name for the intake form.”

I had not thought about that. I looked at the dog again. She had survived heat, starvation, pain, and whatever had happened to her before I saw her beside that road.

“Hope,” I said.

Twenty minutes later, Dr. Elena Ramirez came into the waiting room and told me Hope was severely dehydrated, dangerously underweight, and fighting an infection. They had started fluids, antibiotics, pain medication, and bloodwork.

When I asked if she would live, Dr. Ramirez did not give me the answer I wanted.

“I don’t know yet.”

Then she added something that sounded like good news.

“We checked for identification.”

I stood up. “And?”

“She has a microchip.”

For the first time since I found the dog, I felt relief. “That’s good, right?”

Dr. Ramirez did not answer. She looked down at the tablet in her hands, read something again, and then looked back at me. The expression on her face changed so completely that the relief disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“What?” “The chip is registered.” “To who?” “A woman named Margaret Wilson.” “That’s good. Call her.”

Dr. Ramirez hesitated.

“There’s something attached to the registration.”

I felt my stomach tighten. “What?”

“A missing-pet report.”

I waited. Dr. Ramirez looked toward the treatment room.

“It has been active for twenty-two months.”

I stared at her. “Twenty-two months?”

She nodded.

Suddenly the dog in the treatment room was no longer just a starving stray I had found beside the highway. She had a real name, a home somewhere, and someone who had apparently refused to stop searching for almost two years.

“What’s her name?” “Daisy.”

Dr. Ramirez called the phone number attached to the chip and put it on speaker. After several rings, an older woman answered.

“Hello?” “May I speak with Margaret Wilson?” “This is Margaret.” “My name is Dr. Elena Ramirez. I’m calling from Red Creek Animal Clinic.”

There was a pause. Then the woman said something that made everyone near the desk stop moving.

“Is this about Daisy?”

Dr. Ramirez glanced at me. “Yes.”

On the other end, Margaret inhaled sharply. “Did somebody find her?”