The cut was clean, as clean as if it had been made with a razor. But it didn’t explain her fear. There had to be something more. I slid my right hand carefully along Bootsie’s body. She began to tremble as I got close to her right hip, where the fur was matted and dark. She went down onto her side and tried to roll away, but Roger kept a firm grip on her collar.

“Look here,” I whispered.

Roger let out a soft whistle. There on Bootsie’s flank were four more slash wounds. No loose nail made them. It was if they were made by a handful of knives—or by four razor-sharp claws.

7

THE DEEP END

MY FINGERS WERE turning red from the blood welling out of the deep cuts on Bootsie’s flank. Everything around me began to slow down. I knew that Bootsie was still whimpering, but I could no longer hear her. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t breathe.

When I was six years old, I fell into the deep end of the swimming pool at the park and sank to the cool bottom. I didn’t think to try to use my arms or legs to save myself. My eyes were open, and I could see the blurry shapes of other people swimming, their legs kicking above me. None of them seemed to know I was there. I could no longer hear voices, and there was just a soft roaring in my ears. It wasn’t scary. It was kind of calm at the cold bottom of the pool, peaceful. Then, just as I couldn’t hold my breath any longer and was about to close my eyes, someone grabbed me from behind and pulled me up to the surface. There was a rush of water, then the cold touch of the air and people shouting and shaking me.

Shaking me. The way Roger was shaking me, making me breathe. A trembling breath that was almost a sob.

“What should we do, Mad?” Roger was saying.

I looked up at him. Roger is tall for his age, taller than a lot of grown men. He’s really strong and his shoulders are broad, much broader than the usual kid who’s a good long-distance runner. That’s why the high school football coaches kept trying to get him to come out for the team. But Roger was determined to be a runner, even if he wasn’t built right for it. And he succeeded. That determination of his kept him going when others would quit in that last uphill half mile before the line. Determined as he was, though, Roger was looking at me, expecting me to tell him what to do. I reached into the shed and pulled out an old, clean beach towel.