A widower rescued a starving German Shepherd with a plastic container trapped on her head—then her strange habit of hiding food began exposing what both of them were afraid to lose.

Chapter 7

The anniversary of Leah’s death arrived without ceremony.

Duncan knew the date before he opened his eyes. He did not need the calendar. For two years, his body had remembered it before the rest of him did. The house felt different on that morning. Nothing had changed. The furnace clicked on at the same hour. Snow rested against the kitchen window. Tundra shifted beneath the dining table when Duncan came downstairs. Still, every room seemed to contain one person too few.

Duncan made coffee and stood at the counter longer than necessary. Then he took out a roasting pan.

Leah had believed grief should never be allowed to ruin dinner. It was the kind of statement that sounded ridiculous until she was gone. Every year on their anniversary, and later on the day they had lost her, she used to make roast chicken with rosemary, potatoes browned at the edges, and apple crumble. The crumble was always different. Leah refused to measure the sugar. Duncan had once stood beside her holding a measuring cup and asked how much she wanted. She had scooped sugar into her palm, stared at it, then dumped it into the bowl.

“That much?”

“That’s not a measurement.”

“It’s exactly a measurement.”

“It isn’t repeatable.”

She had looked at him with complete seriousness. “Duncan, if everything has to be repeatable, life gets terribly boring.”

Standing alone in the kitchen now, Duncan found himself smiling. It surprised him enough that the smile disappeared. Then slowly returned.

Tundra watched from beneath the table.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Duncan said. “She was impossible.”

One ear lifted.

Duncan continued cooking. The rosemary released its scent as the chicken roasted. Butter hissed around the potatoes. Apples softened under cinnamon and brown sugar. For the first time since Tundra arrived, the house smelled like someone had expected company.

Duncan set aside a small portion of plain chicken for her before seasoning the rest. He ate very little himself. That had become normal on this date.

Afterward, he packed a thermos of coffee, flowers, and some food into an old canvas backpack. Every year, he drove out to a quiet place overlooking Lake Superior where he had scattered part of Leah’s ashes. There was no grave. Leah had never wanted one. “If you buy me a stone,” she once told him, “make sure it’s useful enough to sit on.” He had laughed then. He did not laugh the first year afterward.

This year was different. Not easier. Just different.

Duncan left the backpack open on a chair while he went upstairs for his coat. When he returned, he stopped halfway into the kitchen. Tundra was standing beside the chair. She had something in her mouth — a piece of kibble. Duncan almost told her to put it down. Then Tundra leaned toward the open backpack and dropped the kibble inside.

Duncan stayed still.

Tundra moved away. She disappeared beneath the table. A few seconds later, she returned carrying another piece into the backpack. Then she went behind the curtain near the back door. Another piece.

Duncan’s expression changed.

Tundra continued, not hurriedly, not playfully. She was collecting a piece from beneath the table, two from beside the baseboard, one from the old boot Duncan had deliberately stopped using because it had become one of her preferred hiding places. Each piece went into the backpack — the bag that was about to leave the house.

Duncan slowly lowered himself into the nearest chair.

Until that moment, the hidden food had been an odd behavior, something to monitor, something Dr. Harlan might eventually help him understand. Now, for the first time, the hiding places seemed to form a pattern. Near walls. Near cover. Near doors. Now inside something being packed for a trip.

Duncan could not know what Tundra believed. He refused to pretend he could. But the possibility came to him anyway. Maybe the food was not being saved because she wanted more. Maybe it was being saved because some part of her never trusted the next meal to arrive. Maybe every room was temporary until proven otherwise. Maybe every open bag looked like preparation for leaving.

Tundra returned with another piece and finally noticed Duncan watching. She froze. The change in her body happened instantly. Head lowered. Weight shifted backward. Her eyes moved to the backpack, then to Duncan. He had seen that look before. Not guilt. Expectation. Something was about to be taken.

Duncan looked at the food in the backpack, then at Tundra. “So that’s the plan.”

Tundra did not move.

“Steal my bag and leave town.”

Her ears shifted.

Duncan reached toward the backpack. Tundra stepped backward. He noticed. His hand stopped. Instead of removing the food, Duncan closed one compartment gently, leaving the section containing Tundra’s contribution untouched. Then he stood.

“You want to come?”

Tundra stared at him.

Duncan picked up his coat. “I’m not asking twice.”

That was a lie. He would have waited as long as necessary.