“Has he got a name?” he asked, rubbing the dog on its chest. In graceful slow motion, the dog rolled over onto its back and raised all four enormous paws in the air, inviting Nat to rub its belly instead. Another wave of happiness washed over him, the best he had felt since his dad left.

“He ‘ent really got one,” said Mr. Tate, “although the missus calls him Woody, on account of that’s … er, I mean because he likes going for walks in the woods. What would you call him, young feller?”

Nat hesitated. When Mick had told him about the white German shepherd puppy, he had imagined it to be a small, cuddly creature, which, in time, would grow into a handsome dog. The creature in front of him was nothing like he had imagined. Its head looked a bit too large for its body and its legs looked almost too skinny to support it. The fur that wasn’t covered in cow dung was patchy and thinning, as though someone had deliberately hacked at it with blunt scissors.

Nat shrugged. “White Fang?” he joked. He couldn’t think of a single name to suit the scruffy creature.

“Storm?” suggested Jude.

“What d’you think, Granddad?” asked Nat.

“I think we ought to leave it,” said Mick. “Go and see some more afore you make up your mind.”

“I have made up my mind,” said Nat. “I want this one, please. I want Woody.”

“Well then,” said Mick, “if you’ve made up your mind, it sounds as though you’ve settled on his name, too.”

“Woody suits him.” Nat grinned. “And he suits me, too.”

“Not quite what me and your nan had in mind,” said Mick, “but if you’re sure …”

“Positive,” said Nat firmly. “Thanks, Granddad.”

To seal the deal, Mr. Tate spat into his hand and held it out to Mick. Nat grimaced as his granddad did the same. Then they shook on it; the deal was done. Mr. Tate bundled Woody into Mick’s small car as though afraid he might change his mind. Somehow Nat managed to squash in beside him, trying not to choke on the smell of cow dung. The farmer slammed the door and waved them off, teeth flashing, skinny arms flailing like a windmill.

From the moment Mick turned on the ignition, it became clear that Woody was not a fan of car travel. His calm temperament disappeared in a display of such terrified behavior that Nat feared he was going to cause an accident as he thrashed in the confined space of the backseat, his eyes flashing their strange golden colors and his nostrils flaring alarmingly. Nat and his family trundled off down the rough farm track to the main coast road, arms, legs, and furry bits entwined, as the boy tried in vain to persuade Woody to stay sitting.