Later that night, after Mom and Mama say their goodnights and the house is quiet, I’m wide-awake. I turn over to one side, then the other. I fluff my pillow, but I can’t get comfortable. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t stop picturing the way Gramps looked earlier.

I’m here!

I sit up and throw my covers off, listening closer.

That voice again. The dog.

I’m torn. I want to be responsible, like Mama said. I know it’s important to not cause any extra stress right now, but helping a lost dog is important too.

There’s a bark outside.

I am careful to be as quiet as possible as I grab the flashlight I always keep on my bedside table and tiptoe down the stairs. I sneak out through the back door with the flashlight, a box of animal crackers, and the travel bottle I always bring to school for water.

I turn on the flashlight and shine it on the ground in front of me, along the stone path, past the fairy tree and the She Shed, and down to the gate at the edge of the woods. I unlatch the gate like I did earlier. I shine the light ahead of me, and I can tell before I even get there that the cat food is gone. The plate is licked clean, and the big bowl of water is nearly empty too.

I refill the bowl with the water from my bottle and shake out a generous serving of animal crackers onto the empty plate.

I wait for a few minutes. But there’s no sign of her.

Not wanting to be gone from my bed for too long, I leave the gate unlatched, just in case she might be able to use her nose to follow my scent to the house. Quickly and quietly, I sprinkle a trail of animal crackers behind me, leading from the spot where she came out of the woods all the way through the yard and up to our back door. I turn off the flashlight, and as I open the screen door that leads into the kitchen, I jump when I see Gramps standing there at the counter, holding a butter knife.

“What on earth are you doing?” Gramps whispers, and that’s when I realize he is making himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Oh, um . . . I—um—I’m leaving these snacks for . . . the fairies.” I stutter.

“Sassafras,” he says, more firmly. “I may be old, but I can still tell when you’re full of applesauce.”

As he sits at the table with his sandwich, he asks, “Want half?”

I sit down next to him and nod, because he really does make the world’s best PB&J sandwiches. He places half of his sandwich on a paper towel and slides it in front of me.