Maybe Gramps was right about Macy and me—I start to wonder if it was me who needed to come around. Or maybe she forgot that she was supposed to hate me. If I don’t have to worry about being her archenemy, that’s one big concern off my mind. And having one less thing to worry about would be a very good thing right now.

At my desk, my thoughts drift to Dewey, all sad and alone in that cold crate in the back room of the shelter, and a shiver runs through my body. I concentrate on her and how much I already love her, and then I fix my mind on the one clear thought I want her to know: I haven’t forgotten you, Dewey; I’m working on getting you out.

I think back to when we first met in the woods, how she gave me her paw, and then I imagine us walking together back toward the house, except this time Noah doesn’t scare her away with his big mouth. We go into the backyard together, and I close the gate behind us and I tell Dewey, “We’re home.” I watch her run after the birds in the yard, and then I realize I’m laughing out loud.

The classroom comes back into focus.

Ms. Avery said something. Everyone is taking out their English books and opening them up. I turn around in my seat to see if I can tell what page the book of the kid behind me is open to, but they pull it closer to them, like I’m cheating or something.

The student in front of me begins reading out loud. My stomach starts to ache, my heart punches inside my chest—I wasn’t paying attention again, and now it’s almost my turn. I’m turning the pages, trying to find where we are, when Macy tilts her open book toward me and whispers, “Top of page seventy-three.”

When it gets to my turn, I’m able to pick up where the last reader left off without Ms. Avery needing to skip over me this time, which is supposed to take the pressure off me but mostly makes me worried that the other students will notice the special treatment.

“Good,” Ms. Avery says, looking satisfied when I finish my passage.

I glance across the aisle at Macy and mouth, Thank you.

She tosses an origami triangle onto my desk.

I open it and read:

You’re welcome. I meant to ask if you ever found the dog you were telling me about. I looked for it on my way to the bus stop this morning but I didn’t see it.

I write back under her note:

thx for asking about the dog. her name is Dewey, btw. I found her but she’s still in danger.