Brody stood in the parking lot with Duke at his heel, watching a man in a pressed shirt walk toward him with a folder under one arm. The man had called two days ago, said he'd heard about the sanctuary project and wanted to talk numbers. The man stopped a few feet away and opened the folder without introduction. He pulled out a parchment deed, edges curled with age, and laid it flat on the hood of Brody's truck. The ink was dark and formal, a thumbprint pressed beneath an old signature. "This is the land you're after," the man said. "I can cover what you're short. All of it. Today." Brody looked at the deed, then at the man. Duke shifted beside him but stayed quiet. "What do you want?" Brody asked. The man nodded toward the kennel building visible past the tree line, the one that sat on the property Brody had walked a dozen times in his head. "A say in how it runs," the man said. "Not control. Just input. I've got ideas about training programs, partnerships with detection work. You'd still make the calls." Brody felt the weight of it settle in his chest. The land was real. The money was real. But so was the cost. He picked up the deed and held it between his fingers, feeling the texture of something that had already changed hands before. "I need to think about it," he said. The man didn't argue. He pulled a card from his pocket, set it on the hood, and walked back to his car. Duke pressed against Brody's leg as the engine started and the tires kicked up dust. The deed was still in Brody's hand when the car disappeared.