I ended up with five stray chihuahuas after leaving the city to clear my head.

I wasn’t even supposed to be in California.

After losing my job, I hit the road in a used van, hoping to find peace in the mountains. But on my second day near the Alabama Hills, I found something else—five abandoned chihuahuas, dirty, trembling, and collarless, marching toward me like I was their last hope.

They wouldn’t leave my side. I fed them, searched for owners, and found nothing. That night, one of them pulled a diamond ring from under the car seat—one I’d never seen before. That’s when I remembered: the van wasn’t mine originally.

I tracked down the previous owner, Ray, using an old receipt. When I showed him the ring, his face went pale. “It was my wife’s,” he said. She’d passed away after moving out to the mountains—with the dogs. He’d sold the van to avoid the pain of her memory.

“The dogs?” I asked.

Ray shook his head. “I thought they ran off. I didn’t think they’d ever come back.”

But they did. They found their way back—to me. Or maybe to her car. And maybe, in a strange way, they led me back too.

As I left, Ray pressed the ring into my hand. “Hold onto it,” he said. “You brought them home.”