I name him Wilbur. By the fourth day, although he still won’t let me touch him, he doesn’t run away when he sees me coming. He waits a minute or two, tail between his legs, then buries his nose in the bowl, sucking up the food in noisy gulps. I tell him things I can’t tell anyone else.

The fifth day is Saturday. I feed him early, before Floyd and Opal are up. After lunch, I go down to the river with my fleet of plastic boats, hoping he’ll join me. There’s a shallow pool where I often wade, the water dark brown with blobs of foam from the current. The boats are drifting in lazy circles around the pool when I hear two shots, one right after the other. They echo through the trees. Then there’s only the sound of the river.

The shots have come from our place.

One of my boats escapes from the pool. Caught by the current, it whirls in the eddies, tips over, bashes nose-first into a rock. Smashing at the water with my fists, I shove all the boats into the current, watching them lurch and toss and go under.

When I go home, there’s a patch of freshly turned dirt behind the garage.

7.2 [first aid]

WINCING, MAKING sure I have a good grip on the leash, I get to my feet. We walk down the road, Igor’s head hanging. His coat, which is a splotchy mix of black, brown, and gray, is slick with sweat. I go faster, ignoring the pain in my knees; he trots along behind me, the leash slack.

I’ll never be able to throw rocks at him again.

At the end of the road, the Semples’ battered old Volkswagen is backing out of their driveway. Mr. Semple sees us right away, parks partly on the road, and clambers out. Glenn leaps out the other side. They both hurry toward us. As Glenn falls on his knees beside Igor, the dog buries his nose in Glenn’s armpit.

Mr. Semple is shorter than me. He’s wearing blue corduroy shorts that Floyd wouldn’t be caught dead in. His spectacles are round with gold frames, and a rim of curly gray hair circles his head.

I pass him the leash. “I stopped Igor near the bridge.”

“He got away from Glenn at MacTaggart’s Store. Glenn just returned home, so we were starting out to look for him. I don’t think I know you—do you live around here?”

Glenn hasn’t told him about me? “Brick MacAvoy. I live up the road.”

“Of course—Floyd’s son.” He holds out his hand to shake mine, which is when we both realize my palm is bleeding.

He says, “Come inside and we’ll clean that up. How did you manage to catch Igor?”

“I have to—”