Time didn't just slow after the draft notice arrived—it fractured. Each hour splintered into moments the Chen family would later dissect in their memories, searching for meaning in the ordinary.
Thirteen days left.
The morning air held the crisp promise of late autumn as Father Chen led WiWi to Willow Creek Park. This wasn't their usual route. They took the long way, past the apartment buildings where other families were just beginning their days. WiWi trotted beside him with perfect heel position—a trick she'd mastered at four months—but Father Chen unclipped her leash at the park entrance.
"Free run, girl," he whispered, his voice thick.
WiWi paused, confused. Rules were rules. Leashes stayed on in public places. But Father Chen knelt and rubbed behind her ears, the spot that always made her back leg thump against the grass.
"I need to see you happy today, WiWi. Really happy."
Understanding dawned in her amber eyes. She burst forward, not in the direct line of their usual path, but arcing wide in a joyful circle around him, her autumn-colored coat catching the morning sun. When she returned, she dropped a fallen leaf at his feet—her favorite game.
Father Chen laughed, the sound surprising them both. "Good girl. Such a good girl."
They reached the pond where mallards floated like living emeralds on the water's surface. WiWi's ears flattened immediately. Her fear of ducks was legendary in their neighborhood—a comical phobia that had begun when she was a puppy and a particularly aggressive mallard had chased her from the water's edge. Usually, Father Chen would steer them clear of this spot.
Today, he sat on their favorite bench and unclipped the leash completely.
WiWi backed away as the ducks noticed them, their sharp quacks carrying across the water. She looked to Father Chen for guidance.
"Stay," he said firmly.
She lowered herself to the ground but trembled visibly. One bold drake waddled to the shore, his head bobbing aggressively.
"Stay," Father Chen repeated.
The drake advanced, hissing now. WiWi's hackles rose. Her body vibrated with the effort of obedience.
Then Father Chen did something extraordinary. He stood and walked toward the drake, clapping his hands sharply. The bird retreated with an indignant squawk, returning to its companions.
Father Chen returned to the bench and sat. "Okay, WiWi. Go."
Something shifted in her. She didn't charge. She didn't run. She advanced slowly, deliberately, her body low to the ground but her tail held high. When she reached the water's edge, she barked once—just once—and the entire flock took flight with a thunder of wings.
WiWi turned to Father Chen, her chest puffed out, her entire being radiating triumph.
"That's my girl," he said, his voice breaking. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket—part of the mandatory development journal they were required to keep for all assigned canines—and wrote carefully: "Shows exceptional courage when properly supported. Natural leadership instincts are evident even in play situations."
He knew the observers would read this. He knew they would note her temperament, her responsiveness, her potential for morale duties. He wrote what they wanted to see while thinking only of the small dog who had just faced her deepest fear for his approval.
Later, as they walked home, Father Chen noticed the stares. Neighbors paused their morning routines to watch them pass. Mrs. Lin from the third-floor balcony waved sadly. Mr. Tao, who had lost his German Shepherd to the draft just last month, stood at his gate and gave a small salute. The mail carrier, whom WiWi had barked at faithfully every day for eighteen months, simply nodded and looked away.
Everyone knew what the calendar meant.
Twelve days left.
Mei broke the ration protocol that morning. The small family allotment of real eggs had been saved for Jian's birthday next month, but she cracked three into a bowl anyway. The smell of cooking eggs filled their small kitchen—a luxury scent that belonged to a different time, a time before the constant background hum of dread.
WiWi sat attentively beneath the table, her ears perked at the unfamiliar sounds. Real eggs sizzled differently than nutrient paste. They created aromas that made her nose twitch with anticipation.
When Mei placed a small portion on WiWi's plate, she didn't pounce. She waited for permission, just as she'd been taught. Mei had to wipe her eyes before she could say the familiar command: "Eat."
After breakfast, Mei took WiWi to the community garden where she volunteered twice weekly. Normally, WiWi would stay home with Father Chen, but Mei needed her close today.
The garden was a relic from before The Great Safe Guard—a small patch of earth where Paradise Zone residents grew herbs and vegetables for pleasure rather than necessity. The air smelled of damp soil and growing things, a stark contrast to the sterile efficiency of the hydroponic farms that fed the city.
"Wang!" Mei called to the elderly man who oversaw the garden. "I brought my helper."
Wang looked up from his prize tomatoes, his face softening. He'd known Mei since she was a child. He'd held baby Jian in his arms. He'd welcomed WiWi to the garden on her first outing at twelve weeks old.
"Ah, little warrior," Wang said, using the nickname he'd given WiWi when she chased away a garden thief at just six months. He knelt slowly, his arthritic joints protesting, and offered his hand for WiWi to sniff. "Your time is coming soon, yes?"
Mei nodded, unable to speak.
Wang reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in wax paper. "Special treats," he explained. "Made with real chicken. Not the nutrient blocks." He winked at Mei. "My granddaughter still has a black market contact from when she worked in food production."
WiWi took the treat gently, her tail sweeping the dirt path.
"I remember when they first implemented the Exchange Draft," Wang said quietly as they walked among the raised beds. "My neighbor, Mrs. Li, refused to surrender her Beagle. She hid him in their attic for three weeks." He paused, brushing dirt from a zucchini leaf. "They took her son instead. He was fifteen. Didn't last two weeks in Thway Kan."
Mei froze. "I didn't know that story."
"Few do. The official report listed him as 'volunteer conscript.'" Wang's eyes were distant. "Sometimes I think this system... it doesn't just take our dogs. It takes our humanity too."
WiWi pressed against Mei's leg, sensing her distress. Mei knelt and buried her face in WiWi's fur.
"I'm sorry," she whispered—to Wang, to WiWi, to the universe. "I'm so sorry."
Wang placed a gnarled hand on her shoulder. "Don't be sorry for loving her. That's the one thing they can't take from you. Not really."
Eleven days left.
Jian refused to go to school. When the educational monitor pinged their home terminal with an attendance alert, Father Chen simply submitted the standard "family emergency" override. These were always approved in the final two weeks before draft collection.
Instead, Jian and WiWi spent the day mapping their neighborhood. Jian had found an old sketchbook in the back of a closet and decided to draw "all the places WiWi loves best."
They started with the big oak tree on Maple Street where WiWi always paused to lift her leg. Jian sketched it carefully, labeling it "WiWi's Tree #1." They moved to the fire hydrant on the corner of Fifth and Elm—labeled "WiWi's Tree #2" with a smiley face drawn next to it. The bakery where the owner always saved stale bread ends for neighborhood dogs became "WiWi's Cafe."
By midday, they'd filled three pages. Jian's drawings grew less precise as the day wore on, his lines becoming shaky with unshed tears.
"Can you smell the bakery from here?" he asked WiWi as they paused on their porch. "Can you smell that bread smell even now?"
WiWi tilted her head, her intelligent amber eyes holding his gaze. She didn't understand his words, but she understood his heart. She pressed her nose into his palm and then trotted to the door, looking back expectantly.
Jian laughed through his tears. "You're right. We should go home. Mama's making your favorite—tuna mixed with kibble. Real tuna. Not the ration kind."
That evening, after Jian had fallen asleep with WiWi curled against his back, Mei and Father Chen sat at the kitchen table with the development journal. They had pages to fill with observations that would help the enhancement technicians understand their dog.
"Temperament assessment," Father Chen read from the form. "Describe subject's response to stress."
Mei's hand hovered over the page. "How do I write this? How do I describe her heart in a military form?"
Father Chen covered her hand with his. "We write what they need to see. But we remember what's real."
Together, they filled the page with clinical observations while their hearts screamed silently. They documented her problem-solving ability when Father Chen set up a treat puzzle. They noted her exceptional empathy when she comforted Jian after a nightmare. They recorded her perfect recall of commands and her natural herding instincts that made her excellent at keeping Jian close during walks.
On the last page, where "Additional Notes" appeared, Mei wrote simply: "TK-2847-C is not just an excellent candidate for Logistics & Morale Division. She is our daughter."
Father Chen didn't stop her.
Ten days left.
The official verification officer arrived precisely at 0900. Captain Li was young—perhaps twenty-five—with the crisp uniform and careful neutrality of someone new to his role. He carried a tablet that glowed with WiWi's registry information.
"Standard pre-collection verification," he explained, his eyes avoiding theirs. "Just need to confirm identity and health status."
He scanned WiWi's microchip, checked her teeth, examined her coat and paws. His movements were efficient, professional. WiWi sat perfectly still, as she'd been trained to do with strangers.
"All in order," Captain Li said, tapping the final confirmation on his tablet. "Collection will proceed on schedule." He paused at the door, his hand on the knob. "The Paradise procedure is... difficult. But the transition is smoother when they have strong bonds. Your documentation shows exceptional attachment."
Mei nodded mutely.
Captain Li's professional mask slipped for just a moment. "I lost my Golden Retriever, Sunny, last year. To Special Operations." He cleared his throat. "He loved tennis balls. Always brought them back, even when I couldn't throw anymore after the ration riots." He met Mei's eyes. "Remember every moment. Even the hard ones. Especially the hard ones."
After he left, Jian emerged from his hiding place under the dining table.
"Will they hurt her?" he asked, his voice small.
Father Chen knelt to his level. "I don't know, son. But I know she's the bravest dog in all the Paradise Zones. And brave dogs find ways to keep their hearts safe, even when their bodies have to be strong."
Jian considered this. "I'll be brave too. For her."
Nine days left.
Mei took the day off from her administrative position at the Sector 7 Resource Allocation Office. Instead of processing ration requests and housing assignments, she spent the morning brushing WiWi's coat.
She'd bought special brushes for the occasion—real bristle ones that Father Chen had traded extra shift hours to obtain. They'd been saving them for this moment, though neither had admitted it aloud.
Mei worked methodically, section by section, removing every tangle, every loose hair. WiWi sat patiently, occasionally sighing with pleasure when Mei hit a particularly good spot behind her ears.
"Beautiful," Mei whispered. "You're so beautiful, my little girl."
She'd started crying halfway through and hadn't stopped. Her tears fell onto WiWi's coat, and the dog whined softly, trying to lick her face.
"No," Mei said gently, holding her at arm's length. "Let me remember you properly. Let me see all of you."
When she finished, WiWi's coat gleamed like polished copper in the afternoon light. Mei took photos with their home terminal—hundreds of them, from every angle, capturing WiWi yawning, looking curious, sleeping peacefully in her favorite spot by the window.
That evening, Father Chen brought home a small container of ice cream—a nearly impossible luxury in the current ration system. They sat in the living room, Jian on Father Chen's lap, Mei on the floor with WiWi's head in her lap, and shared tiny spoonfuls of the precious treat.
WiWi had never tasted ice cream before. Her nose twitched at the cold sweetness. When Jian offered her a small amount on his finger, she licked it tentatively, then looked up at him with such delight that Jian laughed—a real laugh that hadn't been heard in their home for days.
For a moment, they were just a family sharing dessert. Not a family counting down the hours until their hearts would break.
That night, after Jian was asleep, Mei and Father Chen sat on the porch watching the stars.
"Why does it have to be dogs?" Mei whispered. "Why not machines? Or volunteers? Or—"
"Because machines can't love us enough to die for us," Father Chen said quietly. "And humans... humans have become too precious. Have you seen the birth rate reports? We're barely replacing ourselves."
Mei traced patterns in the wooden railing. "My cousin in the Support Territory told me something. She works as a cleaner in one of the breeding facilities. She said the geneticists have developed special markers—tiny DNA sequences that make the dogs more loyal, more resilient. They're not just enhanced when they go to Paradise. They're born to sacrifice."
Father Chen was silent for a long time. "Does it matter? Whether they designed her to love us, or whether she chose to? The love is real either way."
Eight days left.
Father Chen called in sick for the second time in his fifteen-year career at the municipal power generation facility. His supervisor's voice on the comm unit was understanding but firm.
"You know the policy, Chen. Three personal days in a quarter, and they start deducting rations. Even for... situations like yours."
"I understand," Father Chen said. "This is my last one."
He spent the day teaching WiWi tricks she already knew. "Sit." "Stay." "Roll over." Each command executed perfectly, each reward of praise making her tail sweep the floor with joy.
But mostly, he sat with her. In the backyard where she loved to chase butterflies. On the living room floor where she always claimed the sunbeam. Beside Jian's bed where she slept curled against his legs.
"Just be with me today," he whispered, burying his face in her fur. "Just be my WiWi today."
Mei came home early from work. She'd been assigned to process condolence certificates for families whose dogs had been reported KIA in Thway Kan. She couldn't do it anymore. Not with their own countdown ticking in her head.
That evening, they had a picnic in the backyard. Real bread. Real cheese. Real fruit—apples from the community garden that Wang had gifted them with a sad smile. They ate with their fingers, laughing at WiWi's attempts to catch fallen apple pieces.
As dusk fell, Father Chen pointed to a particularly bright star.
"That one's for you, WiWi," he said. "When you're far away, look for that star. It'll always be the same one we see from here. That means we're looking at the same sky. We're connected."
WiWi rested her head on his knee, her amber eyes reflecting the starlight.
Seven days left.
The neighborhood gathered. Not officially—there was no protocol for community goodbyes—but organically, as people do when they share a wound.
Mrs. Zhou arrived first with her famous sweet potato biscuits. She'd been complaining about WiWi's barking since they moved in, but today she knelt on their porch and fed treats to the small dog whose noise had once irritated her.
"My cat will miss her warnings," Mrs. Zhou admitted, her voice thick. "He always waited until she was quiet before sneaking into my garden."
Mr. Chen from across the street brought his grandson. The boy was shy, clutching a small toy truck, but he'd requested to meet WiWi after his grandfather described her duck-chasing prowess.
"She's braver than me," the boy whispered. "I'm scared of the noise from the generator plant."
WiWi approached carefully, sniffing the child's hand before gently licking his fingers. The boy beamed.
By afternoon, eight families had visited. Each brought something—a toy, a treat, a memory. Each left with tears in their eyes.
Jian watched it all, his small face serious. When the last visitor left, he turned to his parents.
"Why do they care so much? WiWi is ours."
Father Chen pulled him close. "Because every family with a dog knows what's coming. Because someday, they'll stand where we're standing. And because loving a dog... it connects us. Even when we don't want to be connected."
Jian considered this. "Like invisible strings?"
"Exactly like invisible strings."
Six days left.
The official notice arrived for the final pre-Paradise briefing. All families were required to attend the Sector 7 Orientation Center to learn about the procedures, timelines, and what to expect after the biological enhancement.
Father Chen read the document twice before setting it aside. "They don't want us to know much. They want compliance. Not understanding."
Mei was already dressed, her hair pulled back severely. "I want to know what they're going to do to her. I want to know if she'll still be WiWi after."
Jian refused to go. "They'll take her away at the end. I'm not saying goodbye twice."
Father Chen negotiated with him gently. "This isn't goodbye. This is... preparation. I need you there with me. For WiWi."
They left WiWi with Mrs. Zhou next door—a decision that had taken hours of discussion. Trusting another human with their dog in these final days felt like surrendering a piece of their hearts prematurely.
The Orientation Center was a converted school auditorium filled with grieving families. The air hummed with suppressed emotion and the scent of too many bodies in a small space.
Major Shen, a human officer with tired eyes and a stiff bearing, stood at the podium. His presentation was clinical, efficient.
"The Paradise procedure is a series of biological modifications that will enhance your canine's cognitive abilities to human equivalence while maintaining their core loyalty instincts. The process takes approximately thirty-six hours."
A mother in the second row stood abruptly. "Will they still love us? After you... change them?"
Major Shen didn't flinch. "The emotional bonds formed during their development period are preserved and strengthened. This is critical to their combat effectiveness."
A father near the back called out, "Combat effectiveness? They're just dogs!"
"They are Enhanced Canine Soldiers," Shen corrected firmly. "And they will save human lives. Your lives. Your children's lives. That is the Exchange Draft Policy."
Mei couldn't take it anymore. "My daughter—my dog—is afraid of thunderstorms. She hides under Jian's bed. Will she still be afraid? Or will you take that too?"
Shen's professional mask slipped slightly. "The Paradise procedure doesn't eliminate natural instincts. It provides the cognitive framework to understand and manage them. Your dog will still be afraid. But she will also understand why she must face her fear."
The briefing continued, but Mei heard little of it. Her mind was back home with WiWi, with the small dog who pressed herself against the wall during rainstorms, who only emerged when Jian's hand reached under the bed to find hers.
When they returned home, WiWi greeted them with her entire body—wagging tail, dancing paws, soft whines of joy. Mrs. Zhou reported she'd hardly eaten, waiting by the door the entire time.
Mei knelt and wrapped her arms around WiWi's neck. "I'm sorry," she whispered into her fur. "I'm so sorry I left you."
Five days left.
Jian became obsessed with language. He'd found an old phrasebook in the community library and decided to learn greeting phrases in every dialect he could find.
"Hello, WiWi," he'd say in the morning. "Bonjour, WiWi," at lunch. "Konnichiwa, WiWi," before bed.
WiWi responded with the same happy wiggle regardless of language. She understood his tone, his touch, the love that transcended words.
"I want her to know I tried," Jian explained to his parents over dinner. "I want her to know I learned all the ways to say hello so that no matter where she is, I can find the right words to call her home."
Father Chen exchanged a look with Mei over the table. They both knew WiWi couldn't understand human speech yet—not until after Paradise. But they let Jian believe his words mattered. Because in their hearts, they did.
That afternoon, Jian gathered all his stuffed animals on his bed. He lined them up carefully, making them sit as WiWi did during training.
"This is how you say hello in German," he told them, patting each one in turn. "This is Spanish. This is the language they speak near the ocean where fish used to swim."
When he was done, he lay among them, his arms full of plush toys, and whispered to the ceiling, "I hope she remembers my voice. Even if she doesn't understand the words. I hope she remembers how I sound when I love her."
Four days left.
Mei broke down.
It began with small things. The way WiWi's food bowl sat empty in the corner when Mei went to fill it. The silence where barking should have been when the mail carrier approached. The empty space on the living room rug where WiWi usually slept.
By midday, Mei was sobbing uncontrollably in the kitchen. Father Chen found her sitting on the floor, surrounded by ration packets, her shoulders shaking with grief.
"I can't do this," she whispered. "I can't let them take her. We could run. We could hide in the Support Territories. They'd never find us all."
Father Chen knelt beside her, his own tears falling. "And if they did? If they took Jian instead? Or both of us? Thway Kan kills humans in days, Mei. They wouldn't last a week."
"But she's family," Mei cried. "She's not some... some replacement part for their war machine."
Father Chen pulled her close. They sat on the kitchen floor as they had on the day the draft notice arrived, holding each other as their world broke apart.
WiWi found them there. She approached slowly, uncertainly. Then she placed her head on Mei's knee and whined softly—a gentle, questioning sound.
Mei reached out and buried her hands in WiWi's fur. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry for what's coming."
WiWi licked her tears away, one by one, as if she understood exactly what they meant.
Three days left.
The Chen household received an official notice of honor. Their exemplary documentation and WiWi's development assessments had earned her a placement in Logistics & Morale Division rather than the more dangerous frontline combat roles.
"This is good news," Father Chen told Jian, trying to keep his voice steady. "She'll be helping other dogs. Keeping them safe."
But Mei had researched. She knew the statistics. "Morale Division has a sixty-three percent casualty rate in the first month. Just slightly better than combat roles."
Father Chen didn't argue. He simply took the certificate of honor and hung it on the wall beside WiWi's nameplate.
That night, Jian climbed into his parents' bed—a privilege rarely granted at his age. He lay between them, small and tense.
"Will they make her forget us?" he asked in the darkness.
"No," Father Chen said firmly. "Nothing can make her forget us."
"But the stories say—"
"The stories are wrong," Mei interrupted. "WiWi loves us. That's stronger than any procedure. Stronger than any war."
Jian was quiet for a long time. Then, so softly they almost didn't hear: "I'm scared she won't know I'm still waiting for her."
Mei wrapped her arms around him. "Then we'll make sure she knows. Every day. In every way we can."
Two days left.
Father Chen built a memory box.
He'd been saving materials for weeks—a small wooden crate from the market, soft fabric scraps from Mei's mending kit, a small vial of dried lavender from Wang's garden. He worked late into the night while the rest of the family slept, sanding edges, lining the interior with soft cloth.
In the morning, he presented it to Jian.
"We fill this with things that remind us of her. Things that will remind her of us."
Jian immediately ran to his room and returned with treasures: a blue marble WiWi had once batted across the floor, a small drawing he'd made of her chasing ducks, the first toy she'd ever destroyed—a stuffed squirrel now missing an eye and one ear.
Mei added items too: the brush she'd used that first time she groomed WiWi, a small lock of fur from her first shedding season, the training clicker Father Chen had used when teaching basic commands.
Father Chen added his own mementos: a photo from their first day together at the Central Distribution Station, the receipt from the expensive collar he'd bought her last birthday, a pressed flower from their first walk together.
When the box was full, Jian added one final item—a small notebook filled with his attempts at different languages. On the first page, he'd written carefully: "For WiWi. So she knows how to come home."
One day left.
Silence filled the house. No one spoke much. No one needed to.
They moved through their final hours together like figures in a dream—slow, deliberate, treasuring each movement.
Mei prepared WiWi's favorite meal again—real chicken, rice, and vegetables. They ate on the floor together, the way they had when WiWi was first learning house rules.
Father Chen played fetch in the backyard until the sun began to set, throwing the ball so many times his arm ached.
Jian read to WiWi from his favorite book, his voice shaking but determined. "See the dog run," he read. "Run, dog, run. See the cat jump. Jump, cat, jump."
WiWi listened attentively, her eyes never leaving his face.
As dusk fell, they gathered in the living room. Father Chen built a small fire in their rarely-used fireplace. Mei brought blankets. Jian brought pillows.
They created a nest on the floor—a circle of warmth and love.
No one mentioned tomorrow.
No one mentioned Paradise.
No one mentioned that WiWi wouldn't be there when they woke.
They simply existed together, breathing the same air, memorizing the shape of each other, storing up enough love to last lifetimes.
WiWi moved among them, pressing her head against each hand, each knee, each heart. She didn't understand the words they whispered, but she understood their meaning. She understood their love.
And in that final night, surrounded by the family she would die to protect, WiWi was exactly what she had always been—not a soldier, not a registry number, not a weapon.
Just WiWi.
Their dog.
Their daughter.
Their love.