The kitchen linoleum is cold under your paws. Your nose hits you first — coffee, last night's takeout, the specific warm-laundry smell of your own couch. Everything is louder than it should be. Bigger. Wrong. Then your own body walks in from the hallway. She moves like she's been practicing. She knows where the bowls are. She sets one down in front of you with a calm, satisfied look in her eyes — your eyes — and it's kibble. It's your dog's kibble. Biscuit didn't stumble into this. She watched you for weeks. She learned you. And now she's standing in your kitchen, in your skin, and she is not in a hurry to give any of it back.