She wheeled him through the garden, showing him the statues and the flower beds bright with spring crocuses and daffodils that had pushed their way up through the weeds. Mary and Dickon took him to the grove of giant, umbrella-like plants and into the ruined temple with its glittering pool.

“I want to leave my chair and feel the grass,” Colin said, and so they helped him out and he sat in the soft grass, leaning his back against one of the temple pillars while Dickon picked up his gardening fork again and Mary used a trowel to dig out the weeds in the flower beds. As they worked, Colin started to ask Dickon the names of the different flowers.

“What do you call this one?”

“That’s a hydrangea,” Dickon replied.

“And this?” questioned Colin, pointing to a yellow flower.

“Hypericum,” said Dickon.

“Hypericum,” Colin repeated slowly.

Just then, Mary heard a rustle in a nearby bush. “Colin. There’s a good friend I would like you to meet,” she said. Reaching into her pocket, she took out some Spam and gave it to him. “Hold it out and he’ll come.”

“He’s here?” breathed Colin. “The dog?”

“Just hold it out. He wants to say hello. I can tell,” Mary said.

Colin held out the meat, and the dog trotted out from behind the bush. Colin watched, fascinated, as the dog approached him. It looked at him for a moment and then quickly took the Spam from his hand.

Colin yelped in surprise and delight. “He took it from me!”

“He did,” said Mary, grinning.

The dog sat down beside Colin and licked his fingers. “Now he’s licking me!” Colin said, half-alarmed, half-delighted.

“He does that,” said Mary, glancing at Dickon, who smiled.

“It tickles,” said Colin. Suddenly he pulled his hand back and looked doubtful. “He’s not diseased, is he?”

“Not that we’ve seen,” said Dickon.

Colin relaxed and stroked the dog’s ears. “What’s his name?”

“He was called Jemima,” said Dickon with a sly glance at Mary. “Till she knew different.”

Mary didn’t mind being teased. “I didn’t know he was a boy at first,” she protested. “We haven’t thought of a new name for him yet, Colin. He’s just called . . . dog.”

“He needs a better name than that,” said Colin. “Perhaps we should call him . . .” He frowned. “Oh, I don’t know. What was your father called, Mary?”

“Marcus,” said Mary uncomfortably. “But can we not name him that?”

“Well, we shouldn’t name him after my father either,” said Colin. “I can’t believe he’s been keeping me in my room all this time when the outside clearly doesn’t hurt me. What about you, Dickon? What’s your father called?”

“Hector,” said Dickon, looking down. “He was a brave man.”

Mary and Colin both stared at him. “Was—you mean he’s dead?” Mary questioned.

Dickon nodded briefly.