Inside the bear lay a tiny brass key and a folded square of paper, soft with age. My hands shook as I opened it. The handwriting was a child’s, wobbly and careful. “Mom, if you find this, I hid it so you would not be sad. The key opens my special box. Ask Mr. Gus. He knows where it is.”

I read it three times. I did not know anyone named Gus. Then I saw a faded tag stitched inside the bear’s ear, with a street address I recognized, a block from Owen’s old hospital. I grabbed my keys, and the dog ran to my car and sat at the passenger door, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along.