He hands me some gloves, a smock, a spray bottle, and a roll of paper towels, and we get to work cleaning the cages in the cat room. Mom stops in once before her next surgery to see how it’s going, and she seems pretty happy with both Patrick and me. It goes by faster than I thought it would.

As we’re about to start on the dog room, Patrick leaves to get more supplies. While I’m alone, I hear that voice again: Hello?

“It’s just your imagination,” I mumble to myself, attempting to ignore it. I try humming, scrubbing at a smudge on one of the crates. I don’t need another reason for Mom to be mad at me.

Are you there?

I drop my paper towels and move toward the voice. It’s coming from the kennel room. At first, I don’t see anything strange. But then I hear a familiar bark coming from a separate room connected to the kennel. I hear the bark again, and again. I crack open the door to the room.

When I peek in, I can’t believe what I see.

There is only one dog in a big crate against the wall.

I recognize her immediately.

“It’s you!” I shout, and I walk over to her and kneel down, placing my hand against the bars for her to sniff me, so she knows who I am. She whines and licks the palm of my hand.

As I look into her two different-colored eyes, I hear a little voice in my head say, You found me! I was calling you and you came!

“I found you,” I say out loud. I think back to how I saw her running through the woods from the bus window this morning.

I was trying to catch up with you when they got me.

I stand up and take a couple of steps backward. “There’s no way I’m having a conversation with this dog,” I say out loud.

Dewey.

“What?” I whisper.

Dewey—that’s my name.

“Dewey?” I repeat, and the dog’s ears perk up.

I wonder if Mom has been right about me this whole time and I really don’t always know when it’s time for pretending and time for real life. But as soon as I have that thought, I hear that small voice in my head say, Thank you for the food; I was so hungry. And my paw feels so much better now.

I must be losing my mind or something. I’m making this up. I have to be.

Dewey tilts her head to the side. No, you’re not.

“Oh my gosh,” I gasp, crouching back down in front of the crate again. “Are you . . . are you really talking to me somehow?”

Yes, and we don’t have a lot of time—I need you to get me out of here.