But it was his dog and he could call him what he wanted. So Bart it was and Bart it stayed. Billy was amazed, almost to the point of ecstasy, that Sam had said he could have a husky. How could Sam have known that his son had been dreaming about a friendly wolf who looked just like Bart? The wolf was stringier and meaner-looking than the cuddly dog, but it seemed to have the same sort of kindness behind its eyes, animal eyes that seemed to know more than they should. And it could take Billy places. At night when he was asleep he would run alongside the wolf and they would go fast, and real far. It felt like Billy almost became the wolf, had the same power in his legs and jaws, the same senses, open to scents that could tell you almost anything, tell you if someone was lying, or if they were sick. Or if they were bad. He was never sure if he became the wolf or if they were two wolves running alongside each other. He just knew they were joined in some way and it seemed as natural as sleep itself.

He never told his Mom or Dad about the wolf. It was private. Not bad private, like when he’d broken Katie’s shiny china pot-pourri apple and hid it from her for a fortnight. Good private. Like being good-mannered enough not to mention something that didn’t concern others. Anyway, they wouldn’t have believed him.

Only once he’d nearly said something, but he knew they’d think he was lying. His Grandpappy in Vancouver was ill. Billy had put his head through the banisters at the top of the stairs as Katie took the call from Grandma. He’d watched her hunch over the phone and knew she was worried. He had heard her say that there was nothing they could do that night, that they would all drive out there tomorrow, and he could tell by her two hands holding the phone, and the low voices of her and Dad talking later, that it had been something serious.

That night Billy went running with the wolf. They ran and ran through the mountains, out into the rocky foothills leading to the coastal range and the sea, splashing through rivers, picking their way through the trees and into the big city of Vancouver. He could smell the ocean, feel the salt in his lungs. And although the child in Billy could never have found his grandparents’ house in that concrete maze and endless patchwork of suburbs, the wolf in him found it with ease. He padded up the big, creaky, wooden stairs, past the framed butterflies and the big droopy palm in its copper bucket, and went into his Grandpappy’s bedroom. His Grandma was sitting by his bed holding his hand. She looked terribly old, and her arms were scrawny beneath the thin satin nightgown she wore.