**“HE WALKED IN LIKE HE’D ALREADY DECIDED THIS WAS HOME.”** The call had been routine—another flooded basement, another soaked street. Then they found him standing on the curb, dripping, caked in mud, gripping a once-white stuffed rabbit so tightly the seams were starting to give. He wouldn’t let go. Not for the first towel, not for the second, not even when they lifted him into the cab. Every time someone reached, he just shifted the toy to the other side of his mouth and kept walking, like the rabbit was the only piece of his old life he was willing to carry. Back at the station the bay doors were open and the concrete still held the chill of the night. Engine B-9 idled quiet. The crew watched the little blue heeler plant himself in the middle of the floor, ears flicking at every sound, rabbit dangling, and just… stand there. No barking. No circling. Just waiting. Mark was the first to step forward. “Hey buddy,” he said, voice low. “You look happy.” The dog’s eyes half-closed the moment the hand settled between his ears. A soft, tired lean. The rabbit stayed clamped, but the rest of him went still in that way only dogs do when they finally decide the danger has passed. Someone behind them laughed under their breath—quiet, the kind of laugh that means you’re trying not to get emotional in front of the crew. “Good boy,” Mark murmured. The dog’s tail gave one slow wag against the concrete. Not the frantic kind. The kind that says *I heard you*. They still don’t know where he came from. No collar, no chip, just the rabbit with the purple stitching and a dog who chose the firehouse floor over every other place he could have run. Now he sleeps under the engine, rabbit tucked under his chin, and when the tones drop he lifts his head like he’s listening for the next person who might need saving. Sometimes the smallest things you refuse to let go of are the ones that finally lead you home.