At 10:30 PM in the rain, a golden retriever with a collar wandered onto my porch. His tag said "Buster" with a phone number. I called. A woman answered on the first ring, her voice trembling: "Hello?!" "I have secured the beast Buster," I said. Thirty seconds later, two headlights tore down my street. A minivan screech-halted in my driveway. The doors slid open before the engine was even off. A mother, a father, and two small girls in pajamas came sprinting across my wet lawn in the dark. Buster let out a joyful yelp and launched into their arms. The entire family collapsed onto my grass in a weeping pile of relief. Then the father stood up, covered in mud and rain, grabbed my shoulders, and pulled me into a violent bear hug that crushed my ribs. "He's been missing for six hours," the father choked out. "We thought he was dead." The two little girls wrapped their arms around my knees. I stood there in the dark rain, trapped inside a human fortress of pure gratitude. I am thousands of miles from my ancestors. Tonight, I was home.