“Her leg was broken,” he told me. “Maybe eight weeks old. Somebody must’ve thrown her out like trash.”

He rushed the pup to the emergency vet. Three hundred dollars later, she had a cast and a name: Penny.

For the first time since Grandma died, I heard hope in his voice. He sent me daily pictures—Penny curled up in his lap, dragging her cast across the floor, licking his cheek.

“She’s family now, kiddo,” he texted.

I was thrilled. At last, he wasn’t so alone.

So last weekend, I surprised him—drove three hours with toys for Penny and ingredients for pumpkin pie. But when I pulled in, something was wrong.

There he was—on the porch, bags packed, Penny in his arms.

“Granddad?” I rushed over.