The limousine drove down a wide boulevard, skyscrapers looming on either side. As twilight descended, lampposts flickered, then glowed yellow.

They’d arrived in The City, a place as different from Milkydale as cigar ashes are from goat milk. There were no rolling hills dappled with daisies and clover. The only dappling came from the dark shadows that lurked between buildings. There were no quaint farmhouses. People lived in tall apartment buildings. There were no brooks that bubbled beneath covered bridges. If any bubbling was heard, it came from the sewer grates that sat in the middle of the busy intersections. To Homer, The City was a concrete labyrinth, which is a fancy word for maze. Each street led to another, each crowded with cars, taxis, and buses. Pedestrians, with important places to go, moved in a constant stream along the sidewalks. Even with the day near its end, the hustle and bustle continued.

Dog stood on Homer’s lap, his nose pressed against the limousine window. Does he remember this place? Homer wondered. A few months back, they’d come to The City looking for answers. Did Dog remember meeting the evil Madame la Directeur? Did he remember the nearly deadly ride in the Snootys’ elevator or how he almost got eaten by the same tortoise that had eaten Homer’s uncle?

But as Dog looked out the window, he didn’t tremble or whine. Rather, he wagged his tail. Maybe he was remembering the good stuff that had happened in The City. A bowl of tomato soup served by a girl with pink hair. A tour of The City Public Library. And best of all, the moment when Edith the tortoise upchucked the book that contained Rumpold Smeller’s map.

The limousine pulled up to the front of a stone building. Four flags, each with a white background and the black silhouette of a bird, hung above the building’s entry. A bellhop dressed in a red uniform with a red pillbox hat and white gloves opened the limo door. A black band wound around his forearm. “Welcome to the Mockingbird Hotel,” he said as Ajitabh and Homer got out.

Homer set his backpack on the curb, then reached back in. After he tugged the leash a few times, Dog plopped onto the sidewalk. As Dog peered up at the building, his tail began to wag. “Lord Mockingbird owned this hotel?” Homer asked.

“It’s been in his family for generations,” Ajitabh said.

Lord Mockingbird had been one of Dog’s previous owners. Dog must have lived here, Homer realized.

As the limo drove away, the bellhop took Homer’s backpack and carried it through a revolving glass door and into the hotel.

“We’d best hurry,” Ajitabh said. With precise timing, he stepped into the revolving door and disappeared. Homer grabbed the end of Dog’s leash and started to follow.

“Urrrr.” Dog stiffened his back legs.

“Come on,” Homer urged, tugging on Dog’s leash.

Dog froze. He stared at Homer with sad, red-rimmed eyes, his ears seeming droopier than ever. This was his “I’m-not-budging-and-you-can’t-make-me” stance. Homer was well familiar with this posture. Begging never helped, but he tried anyway. “Come on, please. We need to go inside.”

Dog groaned and lay on his belly, transforming his sausagelike body into something like a bag of cement. So Homer tried a technique that had always worked for his mother. When the Pudding kids acted up in public—arguing in the movie theater about who got to hold the popcorn bucket or riding the cart down the grocery-store aisles—Mrs. Pudding would simply say, “You’re embarrassing me,” and the kids would feel bad and stop acting like primates.

So Homer crouched next to Dog and whispered, “You’re embarrassing me.”

Dog turned his face away.

“Basset hounds don’t like revolving doors,” the bellhop said as he stepped back outside. “I know that because a basset used to live here. He always had to be carried through the door.”

“Homer,” Ajitabh called, “get a move on, old chap. They’re waiting.”

“Why do you have to be so stubborn?” Homer slid his hands under Dog’s belly. Lifting a full-grown basset hound is best left to a muscle-builder or a giant. It’s a tricky maneuver because if you grab the back end, the front end droops. And if you grab the front end, the back end droops. With a groan and a grunt, Homer managed to get Dog’s rump about a foot off the ground. “You need to go on a diet,” he grumbled.

Taking a deep breath, he heaved Dog higher and stumbled toward the door. A few steps forward, a step back, then forward again. Dog’s ears swayed with Homer’s uneven steps. Homer missed the door’s first opening, then missed the second and third openings. He managed to dart into the fourth opening. Once inside, he hurried to match the door’s rotation but missed the exit into the hotel. Dog moaned as they went around again. And again. “What are you complaining about? You don’t have to carry me.” Just when his arms felt like they might fall off, Homer lunged out of the revolving door and into the hotel lobby.

After they landed in a heap on the floor, Dog wiggled from Homer’s arms and waddled over to a potted plant, where he raised his leg for a little piddle. Fortunately, the lobby was empty, so no one noticed. Homer got to his feet, wiped sweat from his brow, then looked around. A brass bell sat on the check-in counter. Comfy chairs were tucked into the lobby’s corners. A bank of elevators lined the wall. But where was Ajitabh?

Footsteps approached.

Just as Dog raised his leg for a second piddle, a cleaning lady hurried around the corner. An assortment of stains covered her gray dress and white apron. Athletic socks reached to her knees. In one hand she carried a mop, in the other a bucket of sudsy water. She stopped next to the potted plant and glared at Dog.

“Sorry,” Homer said, stepping away from the little puddle.

The cleaning lady made a tsk-tsk sound. She adjusted the plastic shower cap that covered her gray hair, then stuck the mop into the bucket. She glared at Dog again. Dog scratched at a flea.

“I’m really sorry,” Homer said. “He usually doesn’t do that inside.”

After swirling the mop, she pulled it from the bucket and began to clean up Dog’s mess.

The scent of bleach filled the lobby. Homer wasn’t sure what to do. He’d apologized twice. And Ajitabh was waiting. So he took the end of Dog’s leash and began to walk away.

“Not so fast,” the cleaning lady said sternly.

“Do you want me to clean it up?” Homer asked. He glanced at her name tag. It was blank.

She stopped mopping and crooked her finger. “Come closer.”

Homer gulped. He didn’t like the way she’d narrowed her eyes. And that blueberry-sized mole on the end of her nose was gruesome. He took a hesitant step toward her. “I said I was sorry.”

Then she said something under her breath.

“What was that?” Homer asked, stepping closer. The cleaning lady’s face was level with his. Her gaze was fierce.

“Beware the lost and found,” she said quietly.

Homer frowned. What did that mean? “Uh, okay.” He tried not to stare at the mole. “Well, I need to be going.” Dog stuck his nose into the bucket, attempting to drink the sudsy water, but Homer pulled him away.

“Beware the lost and found,” the cleaning woman repeated, louder this time. Did she think that by saying it louder, it would suddenly make sense?

Homer shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “Good to know.”

With a grumble, the cleaning woman collected her mop and bucket and hurried from the lobby. As she disappeared around the corner, a ding sounded.

Dog barked, his tail wagging madly, as a boy with wiry black hair stepped out of one of the elevators.