Chap­ter IV – The Choice opens at the height of Link Fer­ris’s trans­for­ma­tion, where once-bar­ren land now blooms with pros­per­i­ty and promise. This growth was­n’t achieved through short­cuts or easy breaks—it came from tire­less work, relent­less faith, and the con­stant com­pan­ion­ship of his dog, Chum. Togeth­er, man and ani­mal endured long sea­sons of strug­gle, push­ing against lone­li­ness and uncer­tain­ty, form­ing a bond deep­er than most friend­ships. Now, with new fences, thriv­ing crops, and mon­ey in the bank, Link final­ly has time to con­sid­er some­thing he’d near­ly forgotten—love. Dor­cas Chatham enters his life like spring after a bit­ter win­ter. Her gen­tle wit and refined man­ner stir feel­ings Link thought were buried for good, and soon the qui­et com­fort of their time togeth­er fills a dif­fer­ent void. Yet, shad­ows linger—ones shaped not by eco­nom­ics, but by mem­o­ry and fear.

Dor­cas, grace­ful and kind in most mat­ters, car­ries a deep aver­sion that cuts to the heart of Link’s new life. A child­hood attack by a stray left her with a last­ing fear of dogs, one that sur­faces each time Chum bounds toward her with inno­cent affec­tion. Where Link sees loy­al­ty, Dor­cas sees threat. Her grow­ing dis­com­fort with Chum shifts the tone of their romance, intro­duc­ing con­di­tions that slow­ly chip away at their har­mo­ny. Dor­cas doesn’t give ulti­ma­tums with cru­el­ty, but with a sad­ness that makes the request feel heav­ier: choose me, or him. Link finds him­self silenced by this impos­si­ble ques­tion. How does one weigh devo­tion born in hard­ship against the hope of love that promis­es a new begin­ning? His heart becomes a bat­tle­ground, and nei­ther side feels like vic­to­ry.

In Chum’s eyes, noth­ing has changed. The col­lie remains vig­i­lant, affec­tion­ate, and eager to please. But Link’s silence is noticed, and the warmth in their bond is chilled by inde­ci­sion. Each time Link hes­i­tates when Dor­cas vis­its, each awk­ward apol­o­gy or hasti­ly tied leash adds ten­sion where trust once lived. It is not cru­el­ty but con­fu­sion that unset­tles Chum. He waits loy­al­ly by the porch, unaware that his very pres­ence threat­ens the only oth­er bond Link has allowed him­self to form in years. Dor­cas, too, wres­tles with guilt. She does not want to destroy some­thing pure. Still, her fear builds a wall between them—a wall no affec­tion can scale while the dog remains.

It is Olive, Dorcas’s younger sis­ter, who changes every­thing. In a moment that echoes the fragili­ty of life and the clar­i­ty born of cri­sis, she runs into the road chas­ing her ball. Link, par­a­lyzed by the sud­den­ness, is too far away. But Chum moves with­out hes­i­ta­tion, lung­ing into harm’s path to shove the child to safe­ty. The screech of tires silences the air. The silence that fol­lows is loud­er than any cry, filled with dread. Dor­cas rush­es for­ward, pan­ic strip­ping away her fear. In Chum’s still body, she sees more than a dog. She sees loy­al­ty, sac­ri­fice, and the painful truth that love is not some­thing we shape to fit our fears—it’s some­thing that meets us where we are, and some­times saves us in the process.

Chum sur­vives, though bare­ly. The vet says he has spir­it, and that might be what saves him. Dor­cas vis­its with tears in her eyes, not just for her sister’s safe­ty, but for the shame of near­ly ask­ing Link to turn away from some­one who loved him uncon­di­tion­al­ly. In the qui­et hours beside Chum’s rest­ing body, she real­izes love isn’t about con­trol. It’s about mak­ing room—sometimes for peo­ple, some­times for dogs, always for truth. She reach­es for Link’s hand, her voice soft but sure. “I was wrong,” she whis­pers. “He’s fam­i­ly.”

Their future now holds more than two peo­ple try­ing to build a life. It includes Chum, not as a com­pro­mise, but as a cor­ner­stone. The home they imag­ine togeth­er is shaped not by fear, but by grace—one that embraces past hard­ship, present courage, and the humil­i­ty to learn from both. Link no longer has to choose. That bur­den lifts, replaced by some­thing far rich­er: accep­tance. And in that qui­et real­iza­tion, love takes root—not the kind that demands, but the kind that under­stands.