Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The Soft Thing With Teeth

I had ridden in the back seat of a car before.

As a human, that is.

I had never done it without pants, shaking, and shedding everywhere while an eight-year-old sang loudly about meatballs for twenty-five straight minutes.

But here I was, pressed awkwardly against the door of a small hatchback, paws slipping on the seat fabric, the scent of apple juice and crayon wax burning my sensitive new nose.

The girl—Yumi, I’d learned from her mom’s soft but exhausted tone—was practically vibrating with excitement. She kept looking back at me like she’d won the lottery and couldn’t wait to show off her prize.

Meanwhile, I was mentally calculating if jumping out of a moving vehicle would void my reincarnation contract.

The house wasn’t big.

A two-story rental with peeling paint and a front gate that screamed every time it opened. But it smelled like people. Lived-in. A little messy, a little quiet.

And somehow... warm.

Yumi tugged me inside.

“Come on, Mochi! You have to see my room! You have to meet Bunny-Bun and Dragon-Dragon and Owlbert!”

Great. Her toys had stutters.

The second we stepped into the living room, I slipped on a rug and faceplanted into the floor.

Yumi squealed. “You’re just like I imagined! All floppy and silly!”

No. I was Larry. And Larry didn’t flop.

Larry filled out spreadsheets and ate greasy takeout and avoided family reunions. Larry didn’t—*

“Oops! He peed on the mat!”

...That too.

“Bathroom’s the other way, buddy,” said Kaori with a sigh, grabbing paper towels.

My ears drooped. Instinctively.

How dare this body betray me.

The rest of the day blurred into a kind of fuzzy, exhausted, overstimulated mess.

First came the Tour of Terror.

Yumi dragged me around the house, introducing me to every inanimate object like I was the new exchange student.

“This is Mr. Refrigerator. He gives us ice!”

“This is the Couch. He’s squishy but sometimes smells like farts.”

“And this! This is Mochi’s corner now!”

She pointed to a tiny bed with paw prints and a chew toy that looked suspiciously like an octopus with a bad perm.

I tried to lie down in it.

My butt hung off the side.

“You’ll grow into it!” she cheered.

No, I wouldn’t.

I was a full-grown man stuck in a canine meat puppet.

Then came bath time.

I don’t want to talk about bath time.

But I will.

Because it was traumatic.

One moment I was sniffing the floor. The next, I was in a tub, covered in bubbles that smelled like lavender and shame, while Kaori scrubbed behind my ears with a sponge shaped like a star.

“There we go. Can’t have fleas on the futon,” she muttered.

I tried to climb out four times. I succeeded once.

I was returned.

Wrapped in a yellow towel with duck prints.

And Yumi clapped like I’d just won gold at the Dog Olympics.

“You look like a sad pastry,” she said proudly.

If I had thumbs, I would’ve flipped her off.

By evening, I was exhausted.

I curled up on my too-small bed, fur damp, pride bruised, soul a little shaken. Kaori was in the kitchen, washing dishes in silence. Yumi was coloring next to me, humming softly.

Crayons rolled under the couch. She didn’t chase them.

Instead, she reached out—carefully—and rested her hand on my back.

Just like that.

No warning. No giggle. No squeal.

Just... a hand.

Warm. Small. Honest.

“Thanks for coming,” she whispered.

I blinked.

Something in me stilled.

Not as Larry. Not even as Mochi.

Just... something old. Something tired. Something that had never been touched like that.

Not since—