“I’m sorry,” I tell her out loud. “But look, it’s all gone now. Look,” I say, holding out the prickly burr that had been stuck in her paw. She steps toward me again, no longer limping. Cautiously, she picks up the burr between her teeth and shakes it back and forth like she wants to make sure it’s really dead and gone and won’t hurt her again.

“There,” I say. “See?”

I start thinking about the leftovers in the refrigerator that might be a snack fit for a dog, my brain also checking off the list of poisonous ingredients on the poster at Mom’s vet clinic: onion, garlic, grapes, chocolate. But I could probably feed her some string cheese or baby carrots, maybe some animal crackers would be okay. Cat food might even work. She licks her mouth almost like she can read my mind.

“Are you hungry, girl?”

Her right ear perks up and her big bushy foxtail wags back and forth just once. I look into the woods to make sure no one is coming for her, and then I stand, determined to get her to follow me into the yard so I can feed her. She backs away at first, but I pat my hand against my leg and she starts to follow me.

I walk slowly so the dog doesn’t get spooked. I wish Mom were home right now so she could look at the dog right away to see if she’s really okay or not. When I glance behind me, the dog has stopped and is standing still. Her right ear is on alert again, like she hears something that I don’t. Just then, I hear the familiar screech of the back door opening, and when I look toward the house, I see Noah standing on the back porch.

“Sadie! Where are you?”

Before I can even turn back to the dog, I hear her feet scrambling against the ground to run away into the woods.

“Wait! It’s okay. Come back, girl. It’s okay,” I say one more time, but she’s already so far away I can’t even tell which direction she went. Noah calls my name again.

“Noah, shut up!” I yell back.

By the time I make it back to the yard Noah has started walking toward the open gate. He says, “You’re in so much trouble if I tell Moms you were wandering off into the woods.”

“I wasn’t wandering,” I correct. “There was a dog.”

He looks into the woods and then says, “Where?”

“She’s gone now! You scared her with your yelling, and she ran away!”

“You shouldn’t be messing with a dog you don’t know.”

I knew that was true—this was one of the very first lessons I ever remember learning in my life—but the thing was, it felt like I actually did know this dog somehow.