Leo sat in the dark of his apartment for a long minute. Then he opened a browser and searched: Maple Street + missing child + 2019.
Then he opened the PDF one last time, scrolled to the top, and for the first time, noticed the metadata: Author: Alexander Petrov. Last saved: 10 minutes ago.
From somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Alex Dogboy Pdf
Leo pulled up the loose floorboard. The phone was still there—dead, crusted with soil. And the USB drive, identical to the one he’d bought.
He skipped to the last page. Page 47.
Leo found it on an old, dusty USB drive he’d bought at a garage sale. The drive was cheap, white, and scuffed. The only other thing on it was a single, corrupted photo. But the PDF opened instantly.
Leo grabbed his keys. He drove forty minutes to Fall River. Maple Street was small, lined with old oaks. Halfway down, he saw it: a house with a red door. The paint was peeling. The windows were dark. A For Sale sign leaned in the overgrown yard. Leo sat in the dark of his apartment for a long minute
Then, Page 32. I found a phone. The man dropped it last week. I hid it under the loose floorboard by the drain. It has no service, but it has a camera. I took a picture of the chain. I took a picture of my wrist. I don’t know how to send it. But I can write. I can save this file. Leo’s hands were shaking. He checked the PDF properties. Creation date: August 14, 2019. Modified date: the same. Five years ago.
Page 1. My name is Alex. I am twelve. I am not a dog, but the man who owns me calls me Dogboy. He says I am good for only two things: fetching and staying quiet. Leo leaned closer to his screen. The text was typed in a simple font, but the words felt raw, scraped out. I live in a basement under a house on Maple Street. The window is small and high. I see shoes walk by. Sometimes I bark to warn people away. Not because I am mean. Because if they come close, the man hurts them. He hurts me anyway, but I am used to it. Leo’s coffee went cold. He scrolled. Page 14. Last saved: 10 minutes ago
The basement smelled of dirt and rust. He counted three steps. On the third, there it was: a deep scratch in the wood, shaped like an arrow pointing to the corner.
The man leaves me a bowl of food in the morning. Dry cereal and water. If I am good, I get a bone-shaped biscuit. I hate the biscuit. It makes me feel like I really am a dog. But I eat it. Being hungry is worse than being ashamed. The journal spanned 47 pages. Alex wrote about the chain around his neck. The shock collar. The commands: Sit. Stay. Heel. He wrote about the other children the man brought down sometimes—whispering, scared—before they were taken away in the night. Alex never saw them again.