I pictured Alex again, the way she tilted her chin up when she laughed. How she’d tuck her hair behind her ear when she leaned forward. Her fingernails, chewed to the quick or broken off from hockey practice, not like those of the other girls. Then, for an instant, I let myself remember that look of admiration she’d thrown my way after I helped us escape Jack Kaner’s farm.

Wherever she was, I’d find her. I’d get to her. And I’d bring her back.

To Patrick.

Which meant that I had to cross the valley, scale Ponderosa Pass, and make my way to Lawrenceville, where God only knew what waited for me.

As terrifying as it had been to sneak to the church, my journey had barely started.

My hooks and Alex’s hockey stick were useful, sure, but Patrick had saved the day many more times with a gun. To have even a prayer of making it, I’d need bullets.

And there was only one place to get those.

Back in the forest, Cassius’s eyes glinted from the darkness between trunks. He didn’t move until I jogged up to him and tapped his head to release him. As he trotted at my side, he nuzzled my palm, his way of saying hi. He looked up at me, tail wagging, and I realized that it was more than just a greeting. I made him feel safe. I was his pack. His family.

Since the minute he could walk, he’d stayed at my side whenever he could. Though it was against house rules for a puppy, I snuck him past Sue-Anne into my room most days after school. He’d been an active puppy, chewing up two pairs of my sneakers and an algebra textbook. That’s why I knew that something was wrong when he’d turned sluggish at three months. Then the vomiting started. By the time we rushed him to the vet, he was almost dead from parvovirus. Doc McGraw had to keep him overnight to give him IV fluids and antibiotics. Cassius wasn’t supposed to live through the night. Uncle Jim let me stay with him even though it was a Tuesday. He probably realized he couldn’t stop me anyways. I’d bedded down on an old horse blanket outside Cassius’s crate. In the morning Cassius was too weak to lift his head, but when he saw my face at the bars, he’d flicked the tip of his tail once, the closest thing to a wag he could muster.

Even when he was dying, he’d needed to show how happy he was to see me.

That tiny flick of the tail was the best thing anyone had ever given me. I swore then and there that if he lived, I’d make sure he always knew how much he was loved. He’d taught me the importance of that.