My aunt laughed when Grandpa left me his old dog after three years of caring for him. My uncle got the house, and by evening they had put my bags outside. Then my cousin suggested putting Ranger down, as though taking him with me were the unreasonable part. Where were we supposed to go together...

The rain turned the dirt drive into a slick, dark ribbon. I tossed my soaked duffel bag into the backseat of my eleven-year-old hatchback and opened the passenger door.

"Up, Ranger," I whispered.

The old hound hesitated, his clouded eye reflecting the harsh glare of the house’s porch lights. He looked back at the front door one last time—the door he had guarded for a decade—before he summoned his strength and hauled his stiff hind legs up into the seat. He collapsed onto the worn upholstery with a heavy, shivering sigh.

I climbed into the driver's seat, pulled my wet hair back, and started the engine. The heater blew cold air into our faces, but I didn't care. I pulled out onto the narrow county road, my hands trembling on the steering wheel.

Where were we going? I had about four hundred dollars in my checking account and a maxed-out credit card from buying Grandpa's special dietary supplements last month. Hotels in town didn't allow fifty-pound dogs, and even if they did, I couldn't afford a week's stay.

Ranger shifted beside me. He rested his heavy gray muzzle on my knee, his tail giving a single, feeble thump against the gearshift.

"We're going to be okay, boy," I told him, though my voice cracked. "I don't know how yet, but we are."

As I drove toward the highway, Ranger fidgeted, rubbing his neck against my coat. I reached over to stroke his throat, and my fingers caught on the thick leather of his collar—the one Grandpa had spent hours stitching with his paralyzed right hand just days before he died.

I noticed a small, hard bulge stitched into the leather lining beneath his chin.

Curious, I pulled over under the yellow light of an empty gas station canopy. I turned on the overhead dome light and unbuckled Ranger's collar.

Upon closer inspection, the leather had been split along the inner lining, where Grandpa had painstakingly sewn a hidden inner pocket using heavy waxed thread. He hadn't just been practicing holding a needle; he had been hiding something.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I carefully snipped the thread with a small pair of nail clippers from my purse. Inside the hidden leather pouch was a tiny, key-shaped brass thumb drive and a folded piece of heavy paper, protected by a layer of clear plastic wrap.

Unfolding the paper, I recognized Grandpa’s jagged, left-handed scrawl:

Elena,

If you are reading this, Larissa and Victor have shown their true colors, and you and Ranger are on your own. Forgive me for staying silent while I was alive, but I had to be sure they would take the bait.

Victor thinks he inherited the house and the land. He doesn't know that three years ago, I transferred the property deed into a private living trust. The house doesn't belong to the estate. The attorney who held my REAL final documents is Arthur Vance in Oakridge, not Irene Sterling—whom Larissa paid to draft that fake will you heard today.

The thumb drive contains the video recording of my true intent, as well as the deed to the 40-acre timberland lot on the ridge—and the cottage built on it.

You took care of me when no one else would. The house, the land, and everything I truly valued are yours.

Take Ranger home.