Now that he had time to think, he stopped and panted, listening. Somewhere, the soundtrack of this story was playing. A soft melody, bow against strings, all to cue the cycle of memories. And it worked. He remembered that long highway that first ride home, sitting in the front seat with his nose pushed up against the glass as Man talked in low, friendly tones. The house was not much to look at it. But it was home. And it was perfect. He could remember his little bed by the wood stove, and the way Man used to pull books down from the bookcase each night, sitting in the chair and reading softly, Man's voice drifting into the smoke of the fire. He missed Man, and felt sure that another few miles would be where he would find Man. He sat up, licked a paw, and began to run again. The music intensified.
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