JASPER DEMBENSKI COULD accept an idiosyncratic GPS, the blown tire and the five hailstorms he’d driven through yesterday. It was the lack of coffee that was going to do him in.

He shook the empty coffee can, as if the action would magically produce results. Not shockingly, no coffee appeared. He was going to have to head to the grocery store, which was easier said than done, given that he was driving a thirty-six-foot RV. Or maybe there was coffee up at the main office. If he could grab some there, he could put off having to shop until later in the day.

Jasper was on the last leg of a three-month book tour for his latest suspense novel. Rather than trying to convince him to deal with dozens of flights, rental cars and hotels on the multicity tour, his publisher had enticed him with the idea of traveling via RV. Jasper didn’t mind driving long distances, he enjoyed the solitude and time to think, and the RV parks were actually pretty decent.

He was about eleven hundred miles from home. Once he joined up with Interstate 10, it was a straight shot back to Happily Inc. All he needed was a large cup of coffee. He would find a Walmart or Target close to the interstate and get enough food to see him through the next two days.

He walked out into the warm September morning and started for the main office. Along the way, he nodded at people who waved or called out greetings. RV parks were friendly places. As he wasn’t one for unnecessary chats, he’d learned to keep moving while offering a brief wave. Otherwise, he might get trapped in a lengthy and tedious conversation about the viability of a certain back road or a discussion about the best kind of bait for catfish.

“You git, you hear me? Go on out of here or I’ll get my shotgun.”

The angry words came from his left. Jasper instinctively went on alert, his body tensing as he spun in that direction. Using the RV he’d just passed for cover, he backtracked so he could come around from behind and see what was happening.

“You heard me,” the man yelled. “Get out of here.”

Jasper stayed close to the RV as he circled around and then stepped into view, prepared to get between some jerk and whoever he was threatening. Only the short, round, old man wasn’t taking on his kid or his woman, instead he was raising his hand to a dog. An old dog with ribs showing through dirty fur. A dog who flinched and backed away.

“Problem?” Jasper asked, using his tell me your story before I kick your ass voice, the one he’d perfected during his time with the military police.

The old man glared at him, as if wanting to take him on, then seemed to think better of it. “It’s nothing. Just that dog who’s been hanging out here for a few weeks. Somebody dumped him. If you don’t want a dog, just shoot him. That’s what I say.”

The kindness of strangers, Jasper thought grimly. Or lack thereof. He knew there were more good people than bad, but every now and then he was forced to question his faith in humanity.

The dog—some kind of Lab-shepherd mix—looked at him with sad, knowing eyes, as if he didn’t really expect better of life. He stayed out of reach and, despite the heat, shivered a little. He was obviously starving and might be sick. Who would just dump a dog at an RV park?

“He begs for food,” the old man added, his tone defensive. “I don’t have time to deal with him.”

Jasper thought about the coffee he hadn’t had yet and the eleven hundred miles between him and home. He thought about the book he was trying to write and how slowly it was going. He thought about the nightmares he often had and that there were still enough bad days to keep him humble. The absolute last thing he needed in his life was some old dog.

“If you were him, you’d beg for food, too,” Jasper said. “Don’t shoot him.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

Jasper sighed before squaring his shoulders and staring down at the old man who was maybe five-five to Jasper’s six foot three.

“Seriously?” he asked. “You’re going to go there with me?”

The old man shook his head. “I’m just saying...”

“I know what you’re saying. Don’t shoot the dog.”

Jasper walked to the office. Sure enough, they had a huge carafe of coffee that he used to fill his travel mug. While he drank down the dark, hot liquid, he asked about the dog and confirmed it was indeed a stray. A few attempts had been made to catch it, but no one had been successful.

Jasper headed to his RV. He would spend no more than fifteen minutes looking for the dog. If he found it, he would lure it back to his RV with food. Once it was inside, he would take it to a local vet and have it checked for a chip. If there wasn’t one, he would drop it off at a shelter and be on his way. It would take him two hours, tops.

Or less, he thought as he approached his RV and saw the dog sitting outside the side door.

“Good morning,” Jasper said, opening the door.

The dog jumped inside and made his way

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