Sunshine was right: This wasn’t fair.

He realized that Sweet had also been right: There was still so much he did not know about Pack life, Pack traditions. There had to be some kind of ceremony, he was sure, but he had no idea what it would be, or how it would go. When a City Dog died, the longpaws came and took him away. Perhaps he should have asked Sweet about that aspect of Pack life. He should have asked her about so many things.

Lucky stood up hesitantly. “I think the best thing—the natural thing—would be to leave Alfie here. Earth-Dog will absorb him when she’s ready.”

“Leave him?!” cried Sunshine in horror. “I don’t want to leave him!”

“Certainly not.” Daisy shuddered. “If we do, the crows and the foxes will eat him. We can’t do that to Alfie!”

“Daisy’s right,” Mickey agreed. “When a Leashed Dog died, the longpaws would always bury him—sometimes, they would put flowers and stones on top of the ground, after they put him inside. That’s the proper way.”

“It’s the longpaw way,” muttered Lucky, but so quietly it was only to himself. The last thing he wanted just now was to upset his friends, who clearly still thought like Leashed Dogs when it came to these sorts of decisions.

“Daisy and Sunshine and Mickey are right.” Bella stood squarely on a nearby rock, gazing firmly at them all. She looked like a real leader of a Pack. “We should bury him, like his longpaw would have done.”

Lucky watched, impressed, as the grief seemed to lift slightly from the Leashed Dog Pack. They nodded to one another, shook out their fur, and stood up straighter. Yes, thought Lucky. It’s not about what’s normal for Wild Dogs—this is what’s right for them. Alfie wasn’t ashamed of having belonged to longpaws. They were doing this for him, so they would do it Alfie’s way—the way he would have wanted it.

Besides, at that moment Lucky found himself angry with all the Spirit Dogs.

River-Dog! Forest-Dog! Sky-Dogs! Couldn’t you have helped him? Couldn’t you have protected our brave friend from that dog-wolf brute?

He was so small. . . .

There was softer earth a little way from the riverbank, and Lucky pitched in to help Bella, Mickey, and Martha make a hole. It didn’t take long to dig enough space for Alfie.

Martha was right, Lucky thought, grief burning in his gut. Alfie was barely more than a pup. With all a pup’s foolish courage, too. . . .

This would be the best possible place for him. If his spirit was in these trees and this cool earth, deep in the peaceful valley, Alfie would be happy, he decided. And even the river might one day be clean again.

“I wish we had his ball to leave with him,” whispered Daisy. “The one he brought . . . the one he brought when—”

“When the longpaw house fell. When he nearly died.” Bella’s eyes were glimmering with sadness. “We saved him then. Oh, Sky-Dogs, why couldn’t we save him today?”