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...

At 8:00 AM the following morning, I parked outside a modest brick building in Oakridge, thirty miles north of Grandpa's town. Ranger trotted beside me on his leash, his head held a little higher, as if he knew we were on an important mission.

Mr. Arthur Vance, a silver-haired attorney with kind, piercing blue eyes, welcomed us into his office. He didn't look at Ranger like an inconvenience; he immediately pulled a box of dog biscuits from his desk drawer and handed two to the old hound.

"I've been expecting you, Elena," Mr. Vance said softly, pulling out a thick, sealed leather folder. "Frank called me two days before he passed. He told me to wait for you to bring him the collar."

I handed him the brass thumb drive and the handwritten letter.

Mr. Vance plugged the drive into his computer. A video appeared on the screen: Grandpa sitting in his favorite armchair, Ranger resting his head on his knee. Grandpa looked frail, but his eyes were bright, sharp, and entirely coherent.

"This is Frank Miller," Grandpa's taped voice echoed through the office, strong despite his slight stroke slur. "I am making this statement in the presence of my legal counsel, Arthur Vance. I am of sound mind. To my daughter Larissa and my son Victor, who have ignored me in my illness and only seek to strip my bones clean: you get nothing. The house on Elm Street, the 40-acre timber plot, and all my financial assets are placed into the Miller Family Revocable Trust, of which my granddaughter, Elena Miller, is the sole trustee and beneficiary."

Grandpa smiled at the camera, lifting a trembling hand to rest on Ranger's head.

"Elena gave up her youth, her relationship, and her comfort to make sure my last days were filled with dignity. Ranger guarded me when my own children wouldn't enter the house. To Elena and Ranger, I leave everything. And to Irene Sterling—if you helped my children forge a superseded draft of my will, expect a call from the State Bar."

Mr. Vance closed the laptop and looked at me. "I've already filed the injunction with the county court this morning, Elena. Your uncle and aunt have no legal right to step foot on that property. In fact, they are currently committing felony trespass and breaking and entering."