wasn’t even supposed to be in California.

The plan was to drive out west, clear my head, maybe sleep in the car a few nights, and figure out what to do with my life after losing my job. No destination, just space. Somewhere with mountains and no cell signal.

On my second day near the Alabama Hills, I stopped to make coffee out of the trunk. That’s when I saw the first one—this tiny tan chihuahua hobbling down the dirt road, no collar, covered in dust. I crouched down, held out a piece of granola bar, and she came right to me.

Then, like a weird little parade, four more came trotting up behind her.

All of them were underfed and shaking like they hadn’t slept properly in days. No tags. No humans nearby. Just five chihuahuas looking like they’d chosen me.

I thought maybe they’d wandered from a ranch or someone’s camper, but I drove around for two hours asking folks at gas stations and trailheads. Nothing. One old guy at a roadside market just chuckled and said, “Oh, her dogs? Yeah… she don’t come around anymore.”

I asked who he meant, but he just pointed toward the mountains and muttered, “They waited a long time.”

I still don’t know what he meant by that.

I was gonna drop them at a shelter in the next town, but when I pulled over to refuel, all five were curled up in the backseat like they’d always lived there.

That was three days ago.

And last night, one of them dragged something out from under the passenger seat I definitely didn’t put there…

It was a ring. A simple gold band with a small diamond glinting faintly in the dim light of my car’s interior. The dog—a scrappy black-and-white one I’d started calling Bandit—had it clenched firmly between his teeth, tail wagging as if he’d found buried treasure. At first, I thought it might have been mine, though I couldn’t remember ever owning jewelry like that. But then it hit me: this car wasn’t mine either.

A week earlier, desperate for transportation, I’d bought it off Craigslist from a guy named Ray who seemed eager to sell. He handed me the keys without much paperwork, mumbling something about needing cash fast. Now, staring at the ring, I realized it must’ve slipped through the cracks during whatever hasty clean-out Ray had done before selling the car.

Curiosity got the better of me. Who did this belong to? And why would someone leave such a meaningful item behind? The answers felt important somehow—not just because it was valuable, but because it felt personal. Like part of someone’s story had been tucked away under my seat.

The next morning, I decided to backtrack. Using an old receipt Ray had left in the glove compartment, I tracked him down to a mechanic shop on the outskirts of Bishop, where he worked fixing engines. When I walked in holding the ring, he froze mid-wrench-turn, his face going pale.

“That’s… hers,” he stammered, wiping grease-streaked hands on his jeans. His voice cracked slightly, and I could tell this was bigger than a lost piece of jewelry.