A logging truck roars down the road, churning up dust. I narrow my eyes to slits, breathe shallow, and slow to a walk. Will I ever forget Cassie’s face, scrunched up in terror?

When I turn around to run home, the breeze is cool on my face. Daisies sway in the ditch. A hawk soars overhead, light shining through its tail feathers, deep orange. Three crows dive-bomb it, squawking up a storm. Seems like I never noticed these things before.

Running down a hill is almost as hard as running up it. My new nearly-Nikes thud across the bridge. Didn’t even have to break them in.

Something’s running toward me, running faster than I thought anything could run. With a shock of recognition, I see it’s Igor, body compact, paws skimming the ground, the pale blue leash whipping behind him. He’s back on the race track, you don’t have to be a genius to see that.

One logging truck and he’s a goner.

Glenn nowhere to be seen.

I skid to a halt. He’s nearly up to me; I’m not sure he even sees me. Didn’t I read somewhere that a greyhound will run until his heart gives out?

At the last minute I lunge for him. He swerves and snaps at me, breaking stride, slowing fractionally. I stamp both feet on the leash, watch it slide under my sneakers, grinding through the dirt. Grab for it with my bare hands.

The edges score my palm. Frantically I make a fist. Then the loop catches on my thumb and somehow I thrust my other hand through it.

The jolt pulls me to my knees. For a couple of seconds I’m dragged along by a speed-crazed greyhound, gravel ripping my sweats. I yelp. Igor tumbles in a heap on the bridge.

Sides heaving, jaws agape, he raises his head and looks right at me. Through me, beyond me, his gaze still on the track, blind to anything but distance.

A bird calls from the maples; another one answers across the road. Very slowly, the dog comes back to himself, his eyes now filled with a sadness so intense that I say softly, “It’s okay, Igor, it’s okay ... I’ll take you home.”

He starts to tremble. Because he’s exhausted? Or because he recognizes my voice?

Three days past my eighth birthday, a stray dog turns up at our place. No collar, nothing much to look at, hips caved in. I steal some leftover spaghetti from the refrigerator, spooning it into a bowl that I hide in the bushes in back of the garage, and fill another bowl with water. Next day I bring him canned stew mixed with bread.