Uncle Jaeka pulled up to the little flower-lined bungalow with a wrapped gift in his lap. He had been planning this move for weeks, refusing to rush it, because Charlie needed him close. His white sneakers hit the path just as a purple dragon balloon swayed above the porch, party hat bobbing in the wind. He'd made it in time. Then he heard the barking. In the yard stood Whiskey, the family's German pointer, ears pinned and chest low. Across from him sat a tiny golden retriever puppy with a pink polka-dot bow. Charlie's parents stood smiling beside a fresh set of purple food and water bowls. A birthday puppy. Hazel. Whiskey lunged forward, barking sharp and loud. The puppy yelped and scrambled behind Charlie's legs. Charlie's eyes went wide and wet, and she gave Uncle Jaeka that look — the one she never put into words. Uncle Jaeka moved fast. He stepped between the dogs, dropped to one knee, and caught Whiskey's collar with a steady hand. "Easy," he said. He guided Whiskey back, slow and sure, until the barking softened into a low huff. Then he lifted Hazel gently and placed her in Charlie's arms. Charlie hugged the puppy tight. The yard went quiet. Uncle Jaeka stood up and met his niece's eyes. The move could not wait any longer. This house, with its new puppy and its anxious dog and its birthday girl, needed him in it — not next week, not next month. Now.