{ FIFTEEN }

I had never before felt such fear as what was pouring off of Mom and Dad as they shouted at the boy’s window. Mom was sobbing and Dad’s voice was tight, and when I began barking again, frantically, they made no move to tell me to be quiet.

My ears picked up the thin wail of a siren, but mostly I could only hear my barking, Mom and Dad calling Ethan’s name, and, over all of it, the roar of the fire, so loud I could feel it as a vibration through my whole body. The bushes in front of us were still burning, clouds of steam rising as the snow melted with a sizzle.

“Ethan! Please!” Dad shouted, his voice cracking.

Just then, something burst through Ethan’s window, showering glass into the snow. It was the flip!

Frantically I picked it up, to show Ethan that yes, I had it. His head appeared in the hole the flip had made, black smoke framing his face.

“Mom!” he yelled, coughing.

“You’ve got to get out of there, Ethan!” Dad roared.

“I can’t open the window, it’s stuck!”

“Just jump!” Dad responded.

“You’ve got to jump, honey!” Mom shouted at him.

The boy’s head disappeared back inside. “The smoke is going to kill him; what’s he doing?” Dad said.

“Ethan!” Mom screamed.

The boy’s desk chair came through the window, smashing it, and, a second later, the boy plunged out. He appeared to get hung up on the remaining bits of wood and glass, though, so that instead of sailing out over the flaming bushes he dropped directly into them.

“Ethan!” Mom shrieked.

I barked frantically, the flip forgotten. Dad reached into the fire and grabbed Ethan and pulled him out into the snow, rolling him over and over. “Oh God, oh God,” Mom was sobbing.

Ethan lay on his back in the snow, his eyes closed. “Are you okay, son? Are you okay?” Dad asked.

“My leg,” the boy said, coughing.

I could smell his burned flesh. His face was blackened and oozing. I pressed forward, the flip in my mouth, feeling the stabbing pain in him and wanting to help.

“Go away, Bailey,” Dad said.

The boy opened his eyes, and he grinned weakly at me. “No, it’s okay. Good dog, Bailey, you caught the flip. Good dog.”

I wagged. He reached out with one hand and petted my head, and I spat out the flip, which to tell the truth didn’t taste very good. His other hand was curled up against his chest, blood dribbling out of it.

Cars and trucks began arriving, lights flashing. Men ran up to the house and began spraying it with large hoses. Some people brought over a bed and put the boy on it and lifted it up and put it into the back of a truck. I tried to crawl in after him, but the man at the truck’s back doors pushed me away. “No, sorry,” he said.

“Stay, Bailey; it’s okay,” the boy said.

I knew all about Stay; it was my least favorite command. The boy was still hurting, and I wanted to be with him.

“May I go?” Mom asked.

“Of course; let me help you,” the man replied.

Mom crawled into the back of the truck. “It’s okay, Bailey.” Chelsea’s mother approached, and Mom looked up at her. “Laura? Could you watch Bailey?”

“Sure.”

Chelsea’s mother took hold of my collar. Her hands smelled like Duchess. Dad’s hand, though, smelled of the fire, and I knew he was in pain. He climbed in to be with Mom and the boy.

Nearly everyone in the neighborhood was out in the street, but no dogs. The truck drove off and I gave it a single mournful bark. How did I know the boy would be safe now? He needed me with him!

Chelsea’s mother stood off to the side, holding me. I could tell she was a little unsure what to do now; most of the neighbors were collected in the street, but she’d been close to the house and now everyone acted like they expected her to remain there instead of joining her friends.

“No question but that it is arson,” one of the men said, talking to a woman who had a gun on her belt. I’d learned that people who dressed like this were called police. “The bushes, the tree, all of it went up at once. Multiple ignition points, lots of accelerant. Family is lucky to be alive.”

“Lieutenant, look at this!” another man called. He had a gun, too—the men in rubber coats didn’t carry guns and were still spraying hoses.

Chelsea’s mother hesitantly eased up to see what they were all looking at. It was Todd’s shoe. I turned my head away guiltily, hoping no one would notice me.

“I got this tennis shoe, looks like there’s blood on it,” the man noted, illuminating the snow with a flashlight.

“The boy got pretty cut up going out his window,” someone else observed.

“Yeah, over there. But not here. All I got here are dog tracks and this shoe.”

I cringed that the word “dog” had come up. The woman with the gun took out a flashlight and aimed it in the snow. “What do you know,” she said.

“That’s blood,” someone else said.

“Okay, you two, see where the trail leads, okay? Let’s tape this off. Sergeant?”

“Yes, ma’am,” a man said, approaching the group.

“We’ve got a blood trail. I want eight feet on either side of it cordoned off. Keep the traffic off the street, and have those people move back.”

The woman stood and Chelsea’s mother bent down, suddenly paying attention to me. “You okay, Bailey?” she asked, petting me.

I wagged.

She abruptly stopped petting me and looked at her hand.

“Ma’am, do you live here?” the policewoman with the gun asked Chelsea’s mother.

“No, but the dog does.”

“Could I ask you to . . . well, wait, are you a neighbor?”

“I live two houses down.”

“Did you see anyone tonight, anyone at all?”

“No, I was asleep.”

“Okay. Could I ask you to join the others over there? Or if you’re cold, please just give us your contact information and you can go home.”

“Yes, but . . . ,” Chelsea’s mother said.

“Yes?”

“Could someone look at Bailey? He seems to be bleeding.”

I wagged.

“Sure,” the woman replied. “Is he friendly?”

“Oh yes.”

The woman bent down. “Are you hurt, boy? How did you get hurt?” she asked softly. She took out a flashlight and probed carefully at my neck. I tentatively licked her face, and she laughed.

“Okay, yes, he’s friendly. I don’t think that’s his blood, though. Ma’am, we’ll need to hold on to the dog for a while; is that okay?”

“I can stay, if you need me to.”

“No, that’s all right,” the woman said.

I was taken over to one of the cars, where a very gentle man took some scissors and snipped off some of my fur, putting it into a plastic bag.

“What do you want to bet it’s the same blood type that’s on the shoe? I’d say our four-legged friend here was on canine patrol tonight and got himself a good bite of arsonist. We get a suspect, the blood is going to help put him away,” the woman told the man who was giving me the haircut.

“Lieutenant,” a man said, approaching. “I can tell you where our perp lives.”

“Oh, do tell,” the woman replied.

“I got the dumb ass bleeding his way in a straight line to a home about four houses down. You can see the blood on the snow from the sidewalk; it goes right up to a side door.”

“I’d say we have enough for a search warrant,” the woman replied. “And I’m going to lay odds that somebody who lives there has a couple of teeth marks in his leg.”

For the next several days I lived at Chelsea’s house. Duchess seemed to think I was there to supply her with a twenty-four-hour-a-day playmate, but I couldn’t dispel the nervous tension that kept me pacing back and forth, waiting for Ethan to come home.

Mom showed up the second day. She told me I was a good dog, and I could smell the boy on her clothes, so I cheered up a little and played Duchess’s favorite game of tug-on-the-sock for an hour or so while Chelsea’s mother served strong-smelling coffee.

“What in the world was that boy doing? Why would he set your house on fire? You could all have been killed.”

“I don’t know. Todd and Ethan used to be friends.”

I turned at Ethan’s name, and Duchess used the moment to yank the sock out of my mouth.

“Is it for sure Todd? I thought the police said the blood work would take longer.”

“He confessed when they took him in for questioning,” Mom said.

“Did he explain why he did it?”

Duchess was shoving the sock at me, daring me to take it. I pointedly looked away.

“He said he didn’t know why he did it.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake. You know, I always did think that boy was strange. Remember when he pushed Chelsea into the bushes for no reason? My husband had a fit. He went down and talked to Todd’s father and I thought the two of them were going to get into a fight.”

“No, I never heard that. He pushed her?”

“And Sudy Hurst says she caught him trying to see in her bedroom window.”

“I thought she wasn’t sure who it was.”

“Well, now she says it was Todd.”

With a sudden lunge, I grabbed the sock. Duchess dug her feet in and growled. I pulled her around the room, but she didn’t let go.

“Bailey’s a hero, now. Todd’s leg took eight stitches.”

At the mention of my name, both Duchess and I froze. Dog biscuits, maybe? The sock went slack between us.

“They want his picture for the paper,” Mom said.

“Good thing I gave Bailey a bath,” Chelsea’s mom replied.

What? Another bath? I’d just had a bath! I spat out the sock, Duchess shaking it joyously, prancing around the room in victory.

“How is Ethan?”

Mom put her coffee cup down. The boy’s name and the flash of worry and grief coming off of her caused me to go over to her and put my head in her lap. She reached down and petted my head.

“They had to put a pin in his leg, and he’ll have . . . scarring.” Mom gestured toward her face and then pressed her hands to her eyes.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Chelsea’s mother said.

Mom was crying. I put a paw on her leg to comfort her.

“Good dog, Bailey,” Mom said.

Duchess stuck her idiot face right in front of me, the sock loosely dangling from her jaws. I gave her a low growl and she backed away, looking bewildered.

“Be nice, please, guys,” Chelsea’s mother said.

A little while later Chelsea’s mother gave pie to Mom but not to the dogs. Duchess lay on her back and held the sock with her paws above her mouth, just like I used to do with Coco in the Yard, what seemed like forever ago.

Some people came and I sat with Mom in the living room and blinked at the bright flashes, like lightning with no sound. Then we went over to the house, which was now covered in plastic sheeting that flapped in the wind, and some more flashes went off.

A week later, Mom gave me a car ride and we moved into the “apartment.” This was a small house built into a big building full of houses, and there were lots of dogs everywhere. Most of them were pretty little, but in the afternoons Mom would take me over to see them in a big cement yard. She would sit on a bench and talk to people while I ran around, making friends and marking territory.

I didn’t like the apartment, and neither did Dad. He yelled at Mom a lot more there than at the house. The place was small, and, even worse, we were there without the boy. Both Dad and Mom would often smell like Ethan, but he wasn’t living with us anymore, and my heart ached. At night I would pace the house, compelled to wander around restlessly, until Dad would yell at me to lie down. Dinner, the high point of my day, was not as interesting when Mom served it to me—I just didn’t feel hungry, and sometimes didn’t finish it.

Where was my boy?