Chippy pressed his black nose against the glass door of Birchview's fanciest restaurant. Inside, chefs moved like dancers around gleaming counters. Steam rose from pots. Knives flashed under bright lights. The French bulldog's orange eyes tracked every movement. Somewhere in that kitchen was a secret recipe that made people line up around the block. Chippy wanted to know what it was. He wanted to taste it, smell it, understand it. His studded collar clinked as he sat down on the sidewalk. Tomorrow he would find a way inside. The next morning, Chippy returned before sunrise. He circled the building, his paws quiet on the pavement. The back entrance stood near a row of trash bins. A delivery truck pulled up at six o'clock. Boxes of meat and vegetables went through the open door. Chippy watched the pattern. Three trips from truck to kitchen. On the fourth trip, he made his move. He slipped between the driver's legs and darted inside. The kitchen smelled like butter and smoke and something sweet he couldn't name. He ducked behind a steel shelf and waited for his chance.