The Dog Who Knew

I was already late—again—running down Harbor Street with my shoes untied and my heart hammering like I'd just finished a 5K. Mom was gonna kill me if I missed another curfew, especially after The Incident last weekend.

Then my **iphone** buzzed in my pocket. Not a text. The Find My tracker.

I skidded to a halt. My phone wasn't even in my pocket—I'd left it on the dock at Miller's Pond an hour ago when I'd been sitting there, overthinking everything like always. The pond where everyone hung out. The pond where Jasmine and her friends had been laughing like I didn't exist.

The tracker showed my phone moving. Fast.

"No no no," I muttered, already **running** again, cutting through the Sanders' backyard because at this point, what was another trespassing violation?

I followed the blinking dot to the edge of the woods, where a golden retriever stood tail-deep in the water, something bright and rectangular in its mouth. The neighbor's **dog**. Buster, I think.

"Buster, drop it," I said, stepping closer.

He gave me this look like, *Come get it, bro.*

"Seriously?"

Buster turned and paddled deeper into the pond. My **iphone**—with my entire life, my embarrassing Spotify playlists, my unsent drafts to Jasmine—was going underwater.

"You've got to be kidding me."

I kicked off my shoes and dove in, **swimming** harder than I'd ever swum in gym class, which wasn't saying much. The water was freezing and murky and full of pond weeds that wrapped around my legs like judgment.

Buster paused near the middle, treading water with my phone still clamped in his jaw like it was the world's weirdest stick.

"Good boy," I panted, closing in. "Who's a good boy? You're gonna be a very good boy if you DROP. THE. PHONE."

He let out this bark that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

And then—*splash*—he dropped it. My phone sank like a stone.

I dove after it, fingers grasping in the murky dark, everything silent except the rushing in my ears. My hand brushed something smooth and I grabbed it, kicking toward the surface, breaking through with a gasp.

Buster was already paddling to shore, looking proud of himself.

I waded out, dripping and shivering, and stared at my waterlogged phone. Completely dead.

But somehow, I started laughing. Like, actually laughing. Because what even was my life?

"You're the worst," I told Buster, scratching behind his ears anyway.

When I got home—soaked, phoneless, three hours late—Mom just stared at me.

"Pond," I said. "It's a long story."

She sighed. "Your father's phone is in the kitchen. You can call Jasmine tomorrow."

I froze. "What?"

"She called while you were out. Said she saw you at the pond earlier. Wanted me to give you her number."

I looked at Buster, who was now asleep on our front porch like he owned the place.

"Thanks," I whispered.

His tail thumped. Once.

Some dogs just know.