Chapter 4: Earning My Place

“He saved me, so he’s my friend.”

To Tyler, it was just common sense. Loyalty was simple—if someone helps you, you help them right back.

Even curled up on a soft fleece blanket in Tyler’s arms, it still felt unreal.

The blanket smelled like Tide and sunshine. Tyler stroked my fur, whispering, “It’s okay, you’re safe now.” For a moment, I let myself believe it was true.

How did I get adopted by the richest family in town?

It all felt like a scene out of a movie—a stray like me, suddenly living in a mansion with marble floors and a crystal chandelier hanging in the foyer.

In my previous life, I was delayed for ages. That’s when my brother jumped at the chance to impersonate me and got adopted instead.

I remembered the sting of betrayal, the ache of being left behind. This time, I swore I’d do things differently.

Where was my brother?

I scanned the park, nose twitching. He was never far when trouble was brewing.

I looked around, and just before being carried into the Cadillac Escalade, I spotted my brother peeking from behind a maple tree in the flowerbed—a stray who looked just like me, except his eyes glittered with excitement and certainty.

He crouched low, tail wagging, eyes locked on me like he was watching his own private movie. I could almost see the gears turning in his head.

He barked at me, taunting:

“Little bro, this time I’m the star everyone loves. You go to the Masons and see how you like it!”

His bark was sharp, mocking. I wanted to bark back, but Tyler’s arms tightened around me, and the car door thudded shut.

The Escalade carrying me rolled away, the world outside blurring past. I lay on the back seat, sinking into the buttery leather. In the rearview mirror, I saw my brother lying pitifully under the trees—probably waiting for the influencer who’d scooped me up last time.

I let out a quiet sigh.

A low whimper slipped from my throat. This wasn’t what I’d planned, but maybe it was what I needed.

My poor brother—getting picked by that cold-hearted influencer is a fate worse than a week at the vet.

I shivered, remembering the influencer’s cold studio, the way she’d yank my leash if I didn’t pose just right. The ring light always made my eyes water.

My brother and I are just two plain old mutts—scrappy street dogs, nothing fancy.

No AKC papers, no fancy names. Just a couple of survivors, toughened up by alleyways and the kindness of strangers.

In my last life, after I was hurt fighting the big dog, Tyler cried and begged to take me home for steak every day. My brother overheard, dragged me into the bushes, smeared himself with my blood, and took my place. He was the one the Masons picked up.

I still remember the cold mud, the way he pressed his fur to mine, copying every limp and whimper. He always was a quick study.

Before being carried into the Escalade, he looked back at me with a proud bark:

“Sorry, little brother, tough luck! This time you’re just a stray! I’ll enjoy the good life for both of us.”

His bark echoed in my ears long after the car pulled away. I curled up on the sidewalk, emptier than ever.

He rode off in the Escalade, becoming the Mason boy’s pet—a rags-to-riches leap if there ever was one.

The neighbors gossiped for weeks, marveling at the “lucky mutt” who’d struck it rich. Nobody knew the truth. They never do.