Woof

00

Day 0 · The countdown begins

It was just another uneventful Tuesday afternoon. Peter Parker was crouched on a fire escape in a Queens alley, and he had come to a conclusion: Damage Control had really fallen on hard times.

The man below him wore a lab coat two sizes too big. His badge had once said “Senior Researcher,” but someone had blacked out the “Senior” with a Sharpie. He was cradling something that might have been a gun. The barrel was a repurposed water pipe, the grip was wrapped in three layers of silver duct tape, and a sticky note on the side read PROTOTYPE. DO NOT TOUCH.

“Hey.” Peter dropped down to hang upside down from the fire escape. “Not to critique your work ethic, but have you considered taking that sticky note’s advice?”

The man shrieked and swung the muzzle wildly toward him.

“Stay back!”

“Okay, okay, I’m staying back.” Peter raised both hands, still upside down. “I just want to know what that thing does. It looks like a cheap knockoff of something Reed Richards would invent, and it also looks like it’s about to fall apart, which is honestly a little worrying.”

“It’s… it’s a species converter.” The man swallowed. “It wasn’t meant for shooting people. It was supposed to… anyway, it’s company property. Everyone else left, it’s just me. I only wanted to sell it so I could make rent.”

“A species converter?” Peter repeated. “So it turns people into…”

“Something else.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“I don’t know!” The man was close to tears. “I’ve only tested it on mice! The mice turned into voles!”

“That doesn’t sound like a success, my guy.”

Peter sighed, flipped down to the ground, and shot a web at the barrel. He yanked. His spider-sense went off at the back of his neck in that same instant, but it was already too late.

The man panicked and pulled the trigger. The muzzle lit up an ugly shade of green. Peter only had time to think that color is kind of gross before the beam slammed square into his chest.

The world got bigger.

“Seven days!” the man shouted as he ran for the mouth of the alley, his voice coming from very far away. “Probably! Once it stabilizes, you’ll change back on your own! That’s what happened with the mice, I swear! I’m sorry! I’m really sorry!”

Peter wanted to say get back here. He opened his mouth, and what came out was “Woof.”

01

Okay. Okay okay okay. Calm down, Parker. You’ve been through worse. You’ve had a building dropped on you, you’ve been dusted in space, and you and two other yous got your butts kicked on the Statue of Liberty. This is just…

He looked down and saw two paws. Golden, fluffy, a little too big for the rest of him, standing on a heap of red and blue fabric. That was his suit, now spread around him like an abandoned tent.

This is just you turning into a dog. No big deal.

He tried to talk. “This isn’t…” What came out was a short whimper. He tried again, from deep in his chest: “I’m Spider-Man!”

“Woof! Woof woof!”

A pigeon at the end of the alley flapped off in terror. Great. At least he could still scare pigeons.

He looked down at the suit. He couldn’t leave it here. If some random guy picked it up and sold it to a certain newspaper boss, he’d have to figure out how to steal it back from the next self-proclaimed Spider-Man.

He grabbed the collar of the suit in his teeth and dragged it backward. The dragging wasn’t the hard part. This body was bigger than he’d expected, and stronger too. The problem was that none of his four legs would listen to him, and every two steps he tripped over his own front paws. Behind the laundromat at the end of the alley was a loose vent where he usually stashed spare clothes. He pawed the grate open, stuffed the suit and both web-shooters inside a little at a time, then nudged the grate back into place with his head.

When he was done, he flopped down, panting, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. He pulled his tongue back in. It flopped right back out.

He decided not to think about that for now.

He glanced back at the last thing left on the ground: his phone. It had smashed on the concrete, the screen cracked into an ironic spiderweb. He nudged it with his nose. The screen stayed dark. Another nudge. Still dark.

Peter stared at the black screen and remembered the last message he’d sent last night. It had gone to Jean.

Might be hanging out with friends this week, so I’ll be a little slow to text back.

That was a lie. He hadn’t planned on hanging out with anyone. He’d planned to spend the whole week staking out what was left of Damage Control, and he hadn’t wanted Jean to worry when he went three days without answering. He had never actually seen what Jean was like when she worried. But afterward, Xavier had told him again and again not to drop off the grid, with a look so serious it was not up for negotiation.

So the good news was that for the next seven days, Jean probably, maybe, possibly wouldn’t be texting him much. For the first time in seven years, he was relieved that nobody would come looking for him.

Peter shook out his fur and headed for the street. He was going home. He couldn’t open doors and he couldn’t call anyone, but once a person turned into a dog, “go home” was probably the only instinct left.

It was a fifteen-minute walk to his apartment. As a dog, it took him forty. A kid chased him for half a block yelling “Golden retriever! Golden retriever!” and he stood in front of a hot dog cart for a full minute before he talked himself into moving on.

He slipped into the building behind a neighbor carrying groceries, climbed to the fourth floor, and sat down outside 4C. The door was locked. He’d locked it himself on his way out.

He lifted a front paw and scratched at the door twice, then leaned his head against it and closed his eyes.

Seven days. It’s only seven days.

02

A smell woke him up.

As a dog, his nose woke up before his eyes did. The hallway smelled like musty old carpet, and the Southern stew from the old lady on the third floor was hard to miss, but floating on top of all of it was a clean, familiar scent of laundry detergent.

He opened his eyes.

A girl was standing by the elevator. Red hair in a slightly messy low ponytail, an olive-green jacket one size too big with the sleeves rolled up twice. A canvas tote hung from her shoulder, and on the strap dangled a little red-and-blue keychain that swung with every step she took.

It was a Spider-Man keychain.

Peter’s ears shot straight up. He hadn’t even known his ears could do that.

Jean Grey stopped outside 4C, glanced at the dog sitting on the doormat, and decided to ignore it. She knocked. Three times, very softly.

“Peter?”

No answer. Peter was right at her feet.

“Woof woof!” he said. “Woof woof woof!” (It’s me! I’m right here! Look down!)

Jean looked down.

“Shh,” she said. “You’ll wake up the neighbors.”

She knocked again, even softer this time, like she was afraid someone might hear. After a while she took out her phone, and the screen lit up her face. From under her elbow, Peter could see the chat window.

The last message was his, from last night: Might be hanging out with friends this week, so I’ll be a little slow to text back.

Her reply was one word: ok.

Now she typed a line into the text box: I’m outside your door.

She stared at it for five seconds, then deleted it one letter at a time.

Peter’s doggy heart sank.

“I know,” Jean muttered at the door, like she was arguing with it. “You said you’re with friends. I know. I was just passing by!”

She sat down on the top step and hugged her bag on her knees.

Peter stared at her for a long time, and then he made a decision. He walked up to her, sat, straightened his back, put on the most serious face of his life, lifted his right front paw, and drew a vertical line in the dust on the landing. The first stroke of a P.

He was halfway through the second stroke when Jean pressed her hand over his paw.

“Don’t dig at the floor,” she said. “The landlord will give him a hard time.”

…

He wanted to say I’m writing. What came out was a wounded whine.

“I wish I knew what you were thinking.” Jean gave a wry little smile. “Too bad I can’t get into animal heads. Yet.”

She reached over and scratched behind his ears.

Peter Parker, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, a man who had once stopped a runaway bus with one hand, discovered in that moment that his tail was wagging all on its own.

He hated this body… probably.

Jean sat on the stairs for two hours. The girl next door came out once, looked at her, then at him. “Aww, what a cute doggy! How old is he?”

“He’s not mine,” Jean said.

“Then why is he lying on your feet?”

Jean looked down. Peter had his chin resting on her shoe. He didn’t remember lying down.

“No idea,” Jean said with a shrug.

03

Jean went downstairs; Peter followed her downstairs. Jean walked out of the building; Peter followed her out of the building.

Jean stopped at the corner, turned around, looked down, and said in the voice of someone running out of patience: “Go home.”

Peter sat.

“I’m serious.”

Peter curled his tail around his front paws, sat up nice and straight, and started bobbing his head. What he meant was my home is right upstairs, but I can’t get in, and you’re the only person in this city who might be able to help me. Judging by Jean’s expression, what she heard was this dog has decided I’m his now.

“I can’t keep you.” Jean crouched to his eye level. “I live at a school. The dorms probably don’t allow dogs. I’ve never asked.” She paused. “Plus I only took one day off to run some errands in the city, and the last bus leaves in forty minutes.”

Peter tilted his head and nuzzled her knee.

Jean stared at his fluffy head. The corner of her mouth twitched, and she pressed it right back down.

She took out her phone, looked up animal shelters nearby, and called them one by one. The first one didn’t pick up. The second one had a recording: open nine to six.

“They’re all closed,” she told Peter, like it was his fault.

The October wind funneled down the street. Peter was pretty sure he wasn’t cold, but this body wasn’t his to command, and it started shivering on its own, from the tips of his ears to the base of his tail.

Jean watched him shiver, closed her eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath.

“Just one night,” she said. “Tomorrow I’ll find you somewhere to go.”

She pulled a scarf out of her tote, crouched down, looped it loosely around his neck, and tied a knot. As she bent over to tie it, the keychain on her bag strap swung down, swaying back and forth, and bonked him on the nose.

Peter stared at the little red-and-blue thing.

“Come on.” Jean stood up and wrapped the other end of the scarf around her hand. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Peter followed her and stepped on his own front paw on the very first step. This body’s legs were longer than he thought, and its paws were bigger than he thought. He hadn’t figured out how to use them yet. He wobbled all the way to the bus stop, but his eyes never left the keychain swinging from her bag.

She has a Spider-Man keychain. Is she really that supportive of my career?

When they tried to get on the bus, the driver put out a hand to stop her. “No dogs.”

“He’s very well-behaved,” Jean said.

The driver looked at her, then down at the dog.

Peter knew this was probably the only moment today he’d be any use. He sat, tipped his head up, flattened his ears, opened his eyes as wide as they would go, and squeezed out a long, thin whine.

The driver held his gaze for three seconds.

“…Back row.” The driver waved them on. “And don’t let me see him.”

Jean handed over her ticket and glanced down at him as they walked to the back. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

Peter: Woof. (Obviously.)

She took the window seat in the back row. By the time the bus left the city, it had started to rain, drops slanting across the glass. Peter curled up at her feet at first, then squeezed his way back out a minute later and rested his chin on her knee, watching the streetlights light up the side of her face one after another, then fade away again.

She took out her phone again. Same chat window, same “ok.” She didn’t type anything. She just looked at it.

After a long time, she said something under her breath. It was very quiet, but Peter had a very good pair of ears now.

“Idiot,” she said. “Every single time.”

She turned her phone face down on her lap, looked down, and met the pair of damp eyes resting on her knee.

“What are you looking at,” she said. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

She tapped his nose with a fingertip, turned back to the window, leaned her head against the glass, and closed her eyes.

Peter didn’t move his chin. He stayed right there on her knee, listening to the rain and to her breathing as it slowly evened out.

Seven days, he thought. He could make it. All he had to do was keep quiet, stay out of trouble, and find a chance to tell her the truth. How hard could it be?

Looking back, that was the first mistake Peter Parker made that week. Also the biggest.

04

It was almost eleven by the time the bus pulled into Westchester.

Jean walked Peter twenty minutes through the dark. “Walked” was generous: all she’d done was loop her scarf loosely around his neck. Eventually they stopped in front of a tall wrought-iron gate. Peter tipped his head back and saw the mansion he’d visited twice before: gray stone walls, pointed roofs, a whole row of dark windows, and a single light on over the porch.

The last time he came, he’d walked in through the front door. Professor Xavier had waited for him on the steps himself, shaken his hand, and poured him a pot of very expensive tea.

This time, he had a girl’s scarf tied around his neck and was being smuggled in like contraband. Life sure has its ups and downs.

Jean went around to the side like she’d done it a hundred times, pushed open an inconspicuous little door, slipped through sideways, and nudged it shut behind her with her back. The hallway was dark. She didn’t turn on the lights. She kept her footsteps quiet and paused at the foot of the stairs with her head tilted, like she was listening for something.

“Scott’s still up,” she whispered, and switched to the other staircase.

Oh, right. She was a telepath. Peter ducked his head and was grateful she couldn’t get into a dog’s brain, because most of what was in his right now was not very dignified. Things like I’ve been walked on a scarf by a girl for two hours, should I feel embarrassed about that, and what laundry detergent does Jean use, because it smells amazing.

Jean’s room was at the end of the third-floor hallway. She leaned against the door, pressed the handle down with her elbow, let them in, and felt for the light switch.

The lights came on. Peter saw an entire wall. More precisely, he saw an entire wall of himself.

At least eight posters, some official, some clearly from street vendors and printed crooked. A shelf held a row of figures, from his very first red-and-blue tracksuit all the way to the new suit he’d switched to just last month, in chronological order, not a single one missing. There was also a Spider-Man throw pillow with one eye sewn on crooked, so it looked like it was winking. There was even a night-light in the corner shaped like a little cartoon spider lying on its belly.

Right in the middle, in a plain black frame, hung a blurry photo.

It showed a slice of night sky and a jumble of rooftops. Along the bottom of the frame, a section of rusty fire-escape railing and half of a window AC unit cut in at an angle. The shot was badly crooked; whoever took it had leaned most of the way out the window and stretched their arm as far as it would go before pressing the shutter. In the distance, a red-and-blue figure was swinging off the eaves of the building across the street. The camera had only caught his back, smeared into a slanted blur.

Peter recognized the angle. The photo had been taken by someone leaning out of his window.

Before she came to the school, Jean had stayed at his place for a little while. Every time he suited up, pushed the window open, and got ready to leave, he’d look back and say “Heading out,” and she’d always be curled up on the couch under his gray hoodie, and she’d say “Mm” without looking up.

He pictured it: him barely out the window, and Jean scrambling off the couch and running over to take his picture.

Wow. She is so bad at admitting things.

He thought back to the question he’d had a minute ago: Is she really that supportive of my career? The answer was apparently yes. She even had firsthand material. She could run his fan club.

Jean tossed her tote onto the bed and untied the scarf from his neck. Peter hopped up onto the edge of the bed and sat, still staring up at the wall.

“What, you like him too?” Jean smiled, shrugged off her jacket, and tossed it on a chair with her back to him. “Then you can help me support our local hero!”

Peter had to admit that, at first, a certain horror movie flashed before his eyes. Luckily, the warm, flattered feeling quickly drowned it out. Especially since this supporter was the same friend who always complained that he was way too obsessed with the whole Spider-Man thing and kept wishing he’d just stay home and rest.

Peter figured out, without any training at all, how a dog shows it’s happy: his tail swept back and forth across the bedspread, thumping loudly, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

05

“Let’s make you a bed,” Jean said, and opened the closet.

The smells in the closet came rushing out at once. Most of them were hers: clean laundry detergent, cotton dried in the sun. But underneath them was an old, faint scent, so faint that back when he was human he probably never would have noticed it.

Except he wasn’t human right now. And that scent was his.

Peter froze. His nose reacted before his brain did. He jumped off the bed, crossed to the closet in a few strides, shoved his head inside, and stopped in front of the very last thing hanging at the back.

A gray zip-up hoodie, the cuffs worn fuzzy, with a small grease stain on the left pocket that had never washed out.

He knew that grease stain. He’d gotten it fixing the radiator in Aunt May’s old apartment.

When Jean was staying with him, this was the hoodie she wore more than anything else. The sleeves hung way past her hands, the hem came down past her thighs, the hood was always up, and she’d curl into the corner of his old couch with only her eyes showing, watching TV. After she moved out, the hoodie disappeared too. He tore apart his tiny apartment, asked at the laundry room downstairs twice, and finally called her once to ask. She said she hadn’t seen it, so calmly that he never doubted her for a second. He believed her and decided some light-fingered neighbor had walked off with it. Then he remembered the JUICY pants he’d once swiped from his neighbor, and he had to admit karma had a sense of humor.

And here it was, on a hanger at the very back of the closet, set apart from everything else with a little gap on either side, as if she was afraid it might get crushed.

“Hey.”

A hand reached in and steered his head back out of the closet. Jean pulled an old blanket off the top shelf and shut the closet door fast, like she was hiding something.

“Not that one,” she said.

Peter looked up at her. He wanted to ask why not that one. He wanted to ask why does it still smell like me, have you seriously never washed it. All of it came out as one tiny whimper.

Jean didn’t look at him. She knelt in the corner, folded the blanket into a square, took two throw pillows off the bed to put underneath, and patted it down until it made a nest just big enough for a half-grown golden retriever to curl up in.

“There.” She stood up and tipped her chin toward the nest. “That’s yours.”

Peter walked over, turned two circles, and lay down. The blanket was soft, the pillows were soft, and they smelled a little like her.

He rested his chin on his front paws and watched Jean turn off the overhead light and go into the bathroom. The water ran, then stopped. When she came out she’d changed into a big baggy T-shirt, her hair loose. She climbed into bed and rolled over in the dark to face his corner.

“Night,” she said, already half asleep. “Tomorrow I’ll find you somewhere to go.”

Her breathing went slow and even almost right away.

Peter didn’t sleep. The little spider night-light in the corner was still on, casting a dim orange circle across the posters on the wall and that blurry photo. An entire wall of himself watched him in the dark, and the gray hoodie hung in the closet less than two meters away, carefully set apart from everything else.

For once in his life, motormouth Peter Parker had no idea what to say.

06

Day 1 · 6 days to go

At seven-thirty in the morning, a head came through Jean’s door. The door was still shut. A head with a ponytail had simply poked out of the wood, as if the door had grown a person.

“Grey,” said Kitty Pryde, “your room smells like dog.”

Peter’s head jerked up in his nest. Kitty locked eyes with him for one second.

“Oh my God,” she said. “There’s actually a dog.”

The head withdrew. A second later the door opened the normal way, and Kitty and Jubilee squeezed in one after the other. Jubilee was in her pajamas with a bright yellow raincoat thrown over the top, her hair sticking up like she’d just been electrocuted.

“Out,” Jean said. She was still in bed, face buried in her pillow, voice muffled.

“We just want to look.” Jubilee was already crouched in front of the nest. “Oh my God, look, he has eyebrows! His eyebrows are so cute!”

Peter hadn’t even known he had eyebrows. He tried moving one, and Jubilee shrieked. “He raised an eyebrow!”

“What’s his name?” Kitty asked.

“He doesn’t have one.” Jean sat up and rubbed her eyes. “He’s leaving today.”

“But you made him a bed.” Kitty pointed at the neatly folded blanket nest. “With pillows. Your pillows.”

Jean didn’t say anything.

Kitty grinned and turned to find somewhere to sit. Her gaze swept across the wall and stopped. She opened her mouth.

“Pryde,” Jean said.

Kitty closed her mouth.

Jubilee followed her gaze, looked back at Jean, and immediately put both hands up. “We have no comment.”

“Silence is golden,” Kitty agreed.

Peter looked from them to Jean and back again from his nest, completely lost. He had no idea that this wall had a history in this building.

Two years ago, in Jean’s third week after moving in, Kitty phased through the wrong wall looking for someone and became the first person to see it. In week four, Jubilee found out too. In week five, Kitty yelled down the hallway, “Your favorite Spider-Man is on a livestream, aren’t you gonna watch?” That afternoon in class, she climbed onto her chair in front of everyone and recited a sonnet with great feeling, and Bobby laughed at her for a solid month.

Kitty still couldn’t prove Jean had done it. But ever since then, neither she nor Jubilee had dared say the words “Spider-Man” in front of Jean.

Jubilee picked up the throw pillow with the crooked eye from the head of the bed. Without a word, she turned it so it was winking at Jean, and with her other hand mimed zipping her lips shut.

“Put it down.”

Jubilee put it down. She scooted over to the nest instead and lowered her voice to talk to Peter. “Little guy, do you have any idea what kind of place you’ve walked into?”

Peter: Woof woof. (I know. It’s my theme park.)

“Seriously, though,” Jubilee said, standing up and dusting off her knees, breezy as anything, “a dog’s a good idea. Way better than last summer, when you and Sco…”

Kitty’s elbow landed in her ribs.

“…when you went running with Scott,” Jubilee swerved without missing a beat. “At least a dog won’t knock on your door at five-thirty in the morning.”

“Right, running,” Kitty nodded hard. “Just running.”

“Out,” Jean said, and this time she got up.

The two of them were herded toward the door. Behind them, Peter cocked his head, ears standing straight up. Last summer? With Scott? Running?

The door shut behind them. Three seconds later, Kitty’s head poked back through.

“Oh, also,” she said, “Scott made pancakes this morning. He says they’re for everyone, but he’s asked me three times what time you’re getting up.”

“Out, Pryde.”

The head withdrew.

Jean stood with her back against the door for a moment, then looked down and saw Peter sitting in his nest, head tilted, watching her.

“And you don’t get to say anything either,” she said.

Peter: Whine… (I literally can’t.)

07

The kitchen smelled like pancakes, butter, and frying bacon, plus roughly ten young mutants. The second Peter walked in, the smells hit him so hard his head spun, and his nose started twitching in every direction on its own.

“Dog!”

Bobby Drake shot up from the table, fork still in hand. “Whose dog is that? Can I pet him? I can pet him, right?”

“No, Drake,” Jean said.

Bobby’s shoulders slumped and he sat back down, muttering, “You’re nicer to a dog than you are to us.”

“The dog doesn’t ask me stupid questions,” Jean said, stepping around him on her way to the coffee machine.

Someone was standing at the stove: tall, broad-shouldered, in a plaid apron, with a pair of ruby-red sunglasses on his face. Peter recognized him. Scott Summers. The last time Peter visited, this was the guy who had walked him through the entire mansion’s security system in painstaking detail, which had put Peter’s mind completely at ease about Jean’s safety.

“Morning, Jean.” Scott slid a plate to the edge of the stove. Three pancakes stacked perfectly, sliced strawberries on the side. “I made extra. And I warmed up some oat milk for you, the brand you like.”

“I’m not hungry.” Jean took a mug from the cupboard and poured herself a black coffee, nothing added.

“…Okay.” Scott pulled the plate back two centimeters, then stopped. “So, I heard you brought home a dog. If you need to take him to a shelter, I’m free this afternoon. I could drive you…”

“No need.”

Peter sat at Jean’s feet with his head tipped back, looking from Scott to the little pot of oat milk and back again.

How does he know what brand of oat milk she drinks?

The question came out of nowhere, and Peter found he really, really wanted to know the answer.

Scott took a step forward, probably to push the pancakes a little closer. The moment he moved, Peter got up, walked from Jean’s left foot around to her right, and planted himself squarely between them. Then he sat, straightened his back, and stared up at Scott’s red glasses.

Scott stopped.

“He…” Scott looked at the dog, then at Jean. “I don’t think he likes me. Aren’t golden retrievers supposed to like everyone?”

Jean glanced down at the golden heap at her feet. Normally he wagged at everybody. Right now, his tail wasn’t moving at all.

The corner of her mouth moved.

“He’s a little shy around strangers,” she said.

She carried her coffee to the far end of the table and sat down with an empty chair between her and everyone else. Peter followed, lay down under her chair, stared at the ceiling, and sank into deep self-reflection.

What am I doing? I’m a dog right now. Why do I care whether Scott Summers knows what kind of oat milk she drinks? …So how does he know?

He remembered the half sentence Jubilee had never finished, “last summer,” and the elbow Kitty had jabbed into her ribs. Peter Parker had survived this long on his spider-sense, and this was the first time all the fur on the back of his neck had stood up with no danger anywhere in sight.

A small piece of pancake fell off the edge of the table and landed right in front of his nose. Peter looked up. Jean wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at her phone, her right hand hanging under the table, a little powdered sugar still on her fingertips.

Those were Scott’s pancakes. She had just said she wasn’t hungry.

Peter stared at the piece of pancake for three seconds, then ate it with no dignity whatsoever. It was delicious. He decided not to tell anyone.

“Miss Grey.”

A deep, gentle voice came from the doorway. Hank McCoy walked into the kitchen holding a cup of tea, his blue fur glinting in the morning light. He glanced at Peter under the table and pushed his glasses up his nose.

“I hear the dormitory has a new resident.”

“Just for one day,” Jean said. “I’m finding him a shelter today.”

“I just checked, and every shelter in the city is full this month,” Hank said. “If he’s a stray, I’d suggest posting a found-dog notice online. Until his owner turns up, he can stay here, as long as he’s vaccinated, doesn’t bite, and doesn’t leave any… souvenirs in the hallways.”

Peter: “Woof woof woof!” (I’ve had my tetanus shot! I don’t bite! I’m housebroken!)

Hank looked down at him. “He seems to agree.”

“Fine. I guess I’ll be your owner for a few days. Reluctantly.” Jean ruffled Peter’s head.

The word “owner” still made Peter want to argue, but Jean’s hand was so soft, and the head rub felt so good, that his resistance melted without putting up any fight at all.

Jean held up her phone and pointed it at Peter under the table.

Peter realized this photo was about to go viral, and without thinking he lifted his head a little and found his good angle.

Click.

Jean looked at the photo, raised her eyebrows, and started typing. Peter got up and rested his chin on her leg, and saw what she wrote:

Found in Queens: dog. Golden retriever, male, about six months old, around 20 kg. Very good at reading the room. A bit of a weird temper.

A bit of a weird temper?

Peter huffed and lay back down.

He knew no one would answer the notice. In all of New York, nobody was going to come claim this dog.

Yesterday he’d thought that was a little lonely. Today, lying under her chair, smelling her coffee, listening to her fingers tapping away at her screen, it suddenly didn’t seem so bad.