Not only is he talking, he’s hearing my thoughts and answering me. I hold on to the sides of my throbbing head. Dad said a Smart Car ran over him. But he’s standing right in front of me; Dad must be wrong.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” I tell Diesel.

I came back to save you. His thick tail fans the air, and he pushes his head against me. Pat me! Calm, calm.

I finger his silky ears, and my breathing slows. “So, I bumped my head and now you talk inside of it?”

You always understood me.

“Not this clearly, I didn’t.”

I couldn’t make you pay attention. This way I will.

The back door of the house creaks open and my mother steps onto the porch.

“Naomi, what are you doing on the ground fussing with that animal? It’s ten thirty already. You’re going to make Cathie late if you don’t leave right this minute.”

What do I do now?

Don’t tell the alpha female!

Like I ever would. Voices in your head, is that schizophrenia? I don’t know what’s going on, only that I will have to stall for time until I do. “Something happened. I … I passed out,” I tell her. “Hit my head.”

“What?” Even as she rushes down the stairs toward me, Mom scolds, “Running in the yard with that darned dog in this heat! No wonder.”

It’s not my fault. That other voice in my head again. Diesel whimpers. I’m here to save you, Naomi.

Mom holds my chin in one of her hands. “Where does it hurt?”

“Here.” I point to the fiery centre of pain at the back of my head.

She touches the spot gently.

“Ow!”

“You’ve got a bump the size of an egg.”

Could a head injury make me imagine drowning so clearly?

Calm, calm. Don’t worry about the before. Live in the now, the hot-chocolate voice says in my head.

“Let’s go in and ice that.” Mom helps me up and holds my elbow as we climb the porch steps.

Diesel scrambles up behind us. Coming with you, too. I need to stay close to save you.

He slumps down near my feet as Mom sits me down at the kitchen table. Clicking her tongue, she takes a bag of corn out of the freezer and holds it against the bump. “I can’t afford to lose a shift at the donut shop,” she grumbles. “Here.” She places my hand over the bag. “You hold it.”

My fingers press the icy kernels into the pain. The pounding fades to a soft drumming. “Why does everyone have to work on Canada Day anyway?”

“What are you talking about?” Mom turns on the tap and fills a glass with water. “It’s the twenty-fifth of June. Canada Day’s not until next week.”

“What?” I hold my head, feeling woozy for a second.

Mom hands me the glass. “Here, drink!” She watches as I down it. “How many fingers?” She holds up her hand in front of my eyes.