It's strange how some things can feel so real and so unreal at the same time. How some things can feel life-changing in their enormity and, yet, feel like nothing of consequence as well. This is one of those things.

We're all gathered in the briefing room of the Lookout. We've arranged ourselves in the usual order, but it's different this time. We're joined by others; Everest, Tracker, Liberty, Rex, to name a few. They're tagged onto the line, like extra chess pieces, as Ryder stands in front of us and gives us the news.

'Alright everyone,' he says, placing his hands together like he's about to start praying. There's a somber air about him, about us all. We already know what's coming, we already know why we're all here and how it will be the last time. As if reading our thoughts, Ryder goes on.

'I'm not gonna stand here and pretend it's some kind of big secret why I've gathered you here, and I'm not gonna drag this out any longer than need be, so I'll get right to it. As of today...the PAW Patrol, in every official capacity...is over.'

No one says anything. They don't have to; we can all scent each other's reactions - the feelings concocting in the air, as visible to us as a neon sign. From what I can tell right now, Chase is taking it the hardest. I don't look at him, though. I don't look at anyone. I just keep staring straight ahead.

'I just want to say,' Ryder continues, 'how...unbelievably proud I am of each and every one of you.' As he says it, his eyes sweep across the line, meeting our gazes one at a time. My chest tightness when he meets mine.

'All these years, I've told you what good pups you are. But, I realise now that that was a lie. You guys aren't just good, you're not even just great. You're the best. You're the best I could've ever asked for, the best the world could've ever asked for. You're heroes, and you always will be, no matter what happens now, don't ever forget that.'

There are tears in his eyes now. Underneath my own churning emotions, I really hope he doesn't cry. If he does, I think the rest of us will fall apart.

'You've gone above and beyond so many times, surpassed every expectation, overcome every challenge put in front of you. I couldn't have asked for a better team, for a better family. And that's what we'll always be, no matter where our lives take us: Family.'

Then the tears come, and there's hugging and talking and promises made and disbelief expressed and I'm in the thick of it, overcome with a strange numbness. I feel incomplete, like a big part of me has been surgically removed. I feel lighter, like an iron shackle has been removed from my neck after fifteen years, and I might just float away if I let myself.

I look around at the others now, at their adult bodies and faces, at their momentary sorrow that I know will be drowned by their plans soon enough; like Marshall with his budding TV career, and Rubble with the upcoming archeology project he's mentioned a few times already, and Skye with her aspirations to teach people to fly. I look at them, knowing that there's a very good chance that this may well be the last time I see any of them in person. Even Rocky, who told me a while back that he and Tracker are planning on working together on some environmental protection program.

I look at them all; my friends, my brothers and sisters, the closest thing I have to a father, knowing that there's a good chance this will be the last time I see any of them like this, and I'm hit with a horrifying, exhilarating, intriguing realisation: I might be okay with that.

- From Dog Under: My Life in the PAW Patrol by Zuma (p.274)

NOW

No one had expected the turn in the weather. The forecast had been clear skies and sunshine all week, so when the black clouds and gale-force winds arrived in the early hours of Tuesday, everyone was taken completely by surprise. It got so bad that they ended up closing the beach. People were urged to remain indoors until things improved and all contact with the ocean was strictly prohibited. Zuma was barely able to make it home from his shift without being lifted up into the air like a balloon. Living walking-distance from work had so many perks until you needed a vehicle.

He kicked the door shut behind him with a hind leg, turning the latch with his teeth, and padded into the living room, exhausted. There wasn't a lot of dog-catering housing in town due to the low canine population compared to larger settlements, and it didn't come cheap. Zuma's place wasn't drastically different to that of your average human, simply smaller and designed specifically with a dog's needs in mind, from the furniture to the appliances, to the flooring. It made having company over a little awkward, but Zuma didn't have much of that to contend with these days.

He shrugged off his uniform, shook himself in a vain attempt to rid himself of the windswept look, and flopped onto the low couch. Outside, the wind howled and buffeted the windows, making the silence of the house a little ominous. Zuma switched on the TV - some stupid reality show - and proceeded to ignore it completely as he contemplated what to have for dinner. Opposite him, suspended on the wall was a twenty-four-by-thirty-six inch, cased in glass poster of the front cover of Dog Under. In front of the bright orange backdrop, two-thirds of a younger, airbrushed Zuma stood beneath the white, block capital title, smiling down at him proudly. Beside that was a single shelf upon which stood several golden trophies and plaques, gathering dust: the awards that he'd been awarded in the months following the publication.

Zuma found himself staring at the collection, thoughts of dinner forgotten, and was immediately brought back to his conversation with Bailey last week.

'You're an inspiration to so many...including me.'

They'd gone for dinner to the seafood place the evening before Bailey was set to leave. He'd asked Zuma if he'd had any more thoughts about his offer, Zuma told him he hadn't, and he'd dropped the subject. It had actually been quite a pleasant evening. Zuma had almost forgotten what it was like to just hang out with a friend. It was rejuvenating in a way. After Bailey left, Zuma had gone back to work, fully intent on forgetting about what had been discussed in his office that day. But, every now and then, the thoughts trickled back in and he began to imagine.

He imagined what it would be like to go back on tour. He imagined what it would be like to meet his fans again, however many were left, and hear their thoughts and feelings about his work. He imagined what a sequel to Dog Under would actually look like. Would anyone even want to read it? Would anyone care about his life after the PAW Patrol, after the drama and the therapy and the publicity? What was left write about?

"After losing all my friends and dealing with a lifetime of being done dirty, I've been hiding on a beach as a lifeguard for ten years, and nothing else has happened in my life."

He snorted. It was ridiculous. He sure as hell wouldn't pay money to read that. Then again, who was to say he wasn't just minimising himself and his achievements, as so many of his therapists had told him he was prone to doing? What if there was something to write about? The most obvious topic was the fallout of the first book, which he didn't feel like getting into any time soon, but there were other things too: His first rescue as a lifeguard that involved him alone with two drowning teenagers who happened to be deaf, his near-death experience on the rocks beside the bay during a storm, his various returns to therapy.

His life hadn't ended after the PAW Patrol, it hadn't ended after Dog Under, and it sure as hell hadn't ended now. Even if he never wrote another word again, he still had a story to tell. Why would it matter if no one cared to listen? It was his story, and only he had the power to share it. What was it he was hiding from, exactly? Bad publicity? PAW Patrol fans? He'd dealt with all of that before. It had been hard, it had been awful, but he'd survived it, and beside all that toxicity was a plethora of people who rallied to him, who'd been inspired by his story to take control of their own lives, who called him a hero for reasons that had nothing to do with saving people from shipwrecks and rough waters.

So what was it about the idea of re-emerging into that world that terrified him? Why did he find the idea so paralysing? What was the reason? He knew himself well enough to answer that question. There wasn't a reason.

There were six.

Zuma closed his eyes and exhaled. That was something else to consider, something dark and pulsating that sat in the back of his mind, waiting to be addressed. If he considered Bailey's proposal, if he acted on it, then there was every chance he would be faced, at some point down the line, with his old teammates. Chase's rage, Skye's distancing, Rocky's apathy, Marshall's hurt, Rubble's absence, Ryder's breakdown - All of it had almost been enough to destroy him last time. A second dose might succeed. Could he even survive going through that whole disaster again?

'You were barely an adult back then and now look at you.'

Zuma stared at nothing in particular for a while. The wind hadn't lessened; it continued to scream through the darkness outside, as unrelenting as the crashing of the high tide he could hear less than three miles away. Zuma slipped off the sofa and located his phone. He found the right contact and pressed the call button with his paw. It rang three times before the person on the other end picked up.

'Hey, Zuma!'

'Hey, Bailey. Listen...about what we discussed last week…I've made my decision.'