“How about Rowdy?” I suggest. “I hear it’s available.”

“Sure, what the heck? So what’s your plan?”

“You tell me,” I say. “What’d you think was going to happen?”

“I figured someone would come along and save me. Some human, maybe.”

“Dog’s best friend?” I say.

“If you say so.”

Another lurch. We’re going down.

“Hang on, pup,” I say. “Man’s best friend is gonna save you instead.”

do not let go

The water’s cold, so cold it burns. I paddle frantically. Nothing happens. It’s like pawing air.

I keep my teeth tight on Rowdy. Do not let go. Do not let go, I tell myself, but the water’s churning into my nose and throat, and if I cough, he’ll be a goner.

We hit something hard and metal straight on. I’m underwater, submerged, as bits and pieces of the world rush past.

It’s like the tornado, only wetter.

I dig at the darkness. I think of all the things I’ll miss when I’m dead.

Cheese tops the list.

Well, okay, maybe Ivan and Ruby and Julia and George and Sara top the list.

But then totally cheese.

My back paws graze the bottom. My nose burns. My lungs burn. Everything burns.

I have to cough.

I can’t cough.

Mustering all my strength, I struggle to the surface for a moment, fighting the water with my paws.

Rowdy is dead weight in my mouth.

I hit bottom again, and this time I use it like a springboard, lurching toward the edge of the water, toward solid land, toward grass and dirt and trees and bushes and—

A whoosh of fur and pain, oh man, the pain, someone grabbing my paw, losing it, teeth, sharp, sharp teeth, the smell, even with my messed-up nose, of wildness and danger.

Something grabs my scruff, yanks, pulls me to safety.

Back to the world. Back from the brink.

kimu again

Kimu has me.

He drops me to the mud. His teeth smell of blood. My blood.

I drop Rowdy. My teeth smell of blood, too.

For a long time, no words come, just panting, coughing, panting some more.

Nothing from the puppy. I shove him with my paw, nudge him with my nose.

Nothing.

I look at Kimu, his fur spiked, his eyes wild, different, unknowable.

“I guess they didn’t shoot you?” I say.

“They tried,” he says, eyes on the puppy.

“Thank you for . . .” I trail off.

He glances at me. “Didn’t do it for you.” A pause. “Did it for me.”

With his right front paw, he claws at the puppy. At Rowdy.

“Hey,” I say without really thinking. Or registering the size of his paw. Or realizing that he’s drooling, just a little.

“He, uh.” I put my paw, my puny pathetic loser paw, on Rowdy too. “He’s my . . . my nephew, and well, I—”