I decide I will not run off. I’m going to hold my ground and talk to them if they talk to me and hold it together no matter what Tressa does.

And no matter what Brandy doesn’t do.

“Hello, Delsie,” Tressa says, with her fake smile. “Whatcha doing?”

I hold her eyes. “Waiting for Grammy. So, whose dog?” I ask.

“Mrs. Devine in building three.”

I squat and scratch its head. “It’s cute.”

“I don’t know about that—but it’s worth ten dollars to walk him,” Tressa says. She bends over and tucks the handle of the leash under a big rock.

There’s an awkward silence until we hear a loud bark from a dog in a car pulling out across the street. The dog that Tressa is supposed to be watching goes running, pulling the leash out from under the rock and darting across the street. He’s faster than he looks. And he’s trying his best to catch the car with his furry friend.

“No!” Tressa yells, running after the dog. Brandy follows and so do I.

A car swerves to miss the furry runner. Tressa squeals, slowing down. Brandy, too.

“Oh no! What am I going to do? That woman will kill me!” I hear Tressa say as I whiz past. My bare feet slip a bit in the loose sand on the side of the road.

I see the dog up ahead, realizing he will not catch the car. He spins on the side of the road, his leash winding around his feet. And I am approaching super fast. When he sees me, he takes off again, and I am grateful that he’s a dog with short legs rather than long ones.

If I just grab the leash, I could hurt his neck, so I run alongside of him, bend over, and pick up the leash. However, trying to save the dog, I stumble. I never stumble, but I do now. My elbows are the first to hit the ground, followed by my knees, but I do keep hold of the leash.

As I lie on the side of the road, the dog licks my face, and I mumble, “If you like me that much, you could have just sat and waited for me.” And something about it makes me think of the old Brandy. I really do miss her. I miss who she used to be.

A car pulls over as I stand up. A woman jumps out. “Oh my goodness! Are you okay?” She bends over and looks at my knees and breathes in through her closed teeth. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I think I have Band-Aids in the car.”

I’d actually like to sit by the road and have this complete stranger help me with my cuts. But I do what I’m supposed to do. I stand up straight and say, “It doesn’t hurt. But thank you.”

“But . . .” she begins.

I try not to wince. “I have to get back to my mom and dad on the beach. They’ll be worried,” I say.