My 10-year-old son had been secretly sharing his lunch with a stray dog behind an old hardware store. I thought it was just a sweet act of kindness — until a red SUV appeared, and the dog’s heartbreaking past came to light.
I’m Corinne, 37 years old, and I live in a small town nestled between the mountains and fading memories of better days. I work long hours at a local diner called Millie’s, a place with chipped mugs, a jukebox that still plays Patsy Cline, and a regular named Hank who always orders black coffee and leaves a two-dollar tip, regardless of the bill.