“I’m so sorry to call you this late.” It was 3:47 a.m. when my phone rang, the rescue coordinator’s voice was tight with worry. Earlier that day, I’d brought home Mochi—a cream-colored pittie with velvet ears and the gentlest eyes. A simple foster, I’d told myself. Two weeks. Maybe three. “Her sister isn’t coping,” the coordinator said softly. “She hasn’t stopped screaming since Mochi left. She broke a tooth trying to get out of the kennel.” I looked down at Mochi. She wasn’t asleep like I thought. She was lying still, eyes fixed on the door, as if she knew something was missing. By 4 a.m., I was driving back to the shelter in my pajamas. Matcha was heartbreak in motion—voice gone hoarse, paws raw, body trembling. But the second she caught Mochi’s scent, everything stopped. She pressed herself against the crate, breathing slowly for the first time all night. When the door opened and the sisters touched noses, the panic melted away. Two halves finally whole again. “Just a few days together,” they said. “Until we figure something out.” That was eight months ago. Now they sleep curled into one soft heap. They share bowls, toys, and every moment. Where one goes, the other follows—always, without question. I thought it was a temporary stop on their journey. Turns out, I was home Credit - we are rescuers