I see it. That’s why I turned off onto this road.

This is a road?

More like a dirt trail. Down to a private swimming beach. Only local kids know about it. I used to come down here with P.J.

Sorry about P.J.

How do you know the Dark Army took her? Have they hurt her? Do you know where she is? Why would they go after her? She’s just a normal American girl.

All excellent questions. But there are two good reasons why we might want to discuss them later. First, there’s a police helicopter heading our way.

Sure enough, I see the chopper. Flying in circles, its spotlight bathing trees and rooftops in a streaming golden halo. Okay, what’s the second reason?

Dog sounds nervous. We’re about to go off a cliff.

Up ahead, the trail we’re following disappears into blackness. That’s not a cliff, I explain to Gisco. Just a very steep descent to the river.

Dog is not calmed by my explanation. In fact, he sounds terrified. You’re sure you’ve gone this way before?

Dozens of times. Hold on, my furry friend.

Dogs can’t hold on. We don’t have fingers!

Whose fault is that?

Down we go. Police car bumping, thumping, spinning, crashing over rocks and mud. Always walked down this trail, picking my way. Never drove down it before. Come to think of it, it is a lot like a cliff.

Gisco is hunkered down so low on seat, it appears that he’s trying to crawl inside the upholstery. Why did I trust you? You’re going to kill us!

Car careens over a rough patch. Gisco attempts to scrabble still lower in his seat. He reminds me of a soldier during an artillery attack, trying to dig a subbasement to his foxhole. I can’t even see his head. It’s buried under his massive shaking forelegs.

We’re almost down the hill, Gisco, I reassure him. There’s no need to be so scared.

Me? Scared? Hah! Fear is something I conquered in my puppyhood. He peeks up from between trembling paws.

Just then, we hit a monster bump. The front hood bucks skyward, the car teeters for a second on its rear wheels, and then we start flipping madly, end over end.

I hear a loud yelp of canine fear and pain.

Sparks shoot. Glass shatters. Metal grinds rock.

I am hurled sideways into Gisco. He is spun upside down and wedged against a side wall. We’re all tangled up with each other. My right arm is bent around his hind legs. I spit out what tastes like a noxious whisk broom. It’s Gisco’s tail, which ended up in my mouth.

Yuck. You okay, Gisco?

No. Call a team of surgeons. I am seriously injured. Bones cracked. Organs ruptured. Can’t move a muscle.