The billionaire who owned him, Charles Whitmore, was no ordinary man. Once a household name in American tech, his face had filled magazines and screens until he vanished from public life a decade ago. Now he lived here, in seclusion, with only his fortune and his dogs for company. They said he was impossible to read—stone-faced, proud, untouchable. But if anyone looked closely at the shelves in his office, they would find one frame hidden among the trophies and steel. A boy of eight sat on a step, cradling a shepherd with the same black-and-gray coat as Max. Scribbled beneath the faded photo were the words: Me and Duke, 1965.

That photograph explained everything.

Whitmore could not let Max go—not after losing every other piece of his past. And so, with his silver hair ruffled by the wind and his arms crossed like a commander surveying his troops, he made the announcement himself:

“One million dollars,” he said, his voice cutting through the air. “To anyone who can bring Max back. Not obedient. Not controlled. Gentle. Trusting.”