Over the holiday break, my beloved dog Mei Mei, a spunky Welsh Terrier, went missing while my father was watching her. We were in Laguna Beach, California—a place where we were only visitors, where we knew no one. I didn't expect what happened next: a quiet, extraordinary lesson in the power of community.

     I was sitting in a salon chair when my phone rang.
     "Mei Mei is gone," my father said, his voice matter-of-fact, direct as usual.

     "What do you mean?" I asked, my stomach tightening.
     "She's gone," he repeated. "She slipped out of her collar and ran up and down the Pacific Coast Highway. No one could catch her." 
     That was it. No panic—just the facts.
     "She's toast," he added.
     I sunk my head into my hands. Where could we possibly find her? She could be anywhere. 
     For thirty minutes, I wandered the neighborhood in a daze until my phone rang again.
     "We found her!" an officer said. “A child in the neighborhood saw Mei Mei running at full speed, in full flight mode, and led her to a safe spot.” 

     It was the first real moment of hope.

     I rushed to the location, but when I arrived, the officer stood there, hands on his hips, shaking his head.
     "She's gone," he said, gesturing down the road where the pavement faded into dust, vanishing into the emptiness of the desert trail.

     "We tried. We've been chasing her all around Laguna Beach all morning. She just keeps running."

     I felt the hope drain out of me..

     "I recommend you download Nextdoor," the officer said. "It's an app where locals message each other."

     I had never used it before and was about to disregard his advice—until I realized it was the only lead I had. So I downloaded it.

     Almost immediately, messages poured in. Locals I had never met offered advice: Put up flyers. Leave out clothing with your scent. Stay in the area—dogs often circle back. Strangers called me, offering encouragement and their own stories.

When I was a kid, there was a Chinese school fair, and each classroom had to come up with an idea to sell something to fairgoers. I remember raising my hand, my voice small but steady, and suggesting, “Let's do a prize lottery!”

 The room was filled with the usual suspects—Chinese school slackers like me—and one by one, heads slunk back down to the desks, uninterested. My idea was the only one on the table. To my surprise, our teacher didn't dismiss it. She listened. She believed in me enough to let me take the lead.

 With a mix of excitement and nerves, I went to the mall and picked out a Hello Kitty gift basket of items—the kind of thing that felt like pure treasure to me at the time. I put it in a box and wrapped it carefully, ready for the big day. Then, I made tickets for people to buy, envisioning a line of eager customers.