When I came back from the brewery this evening, after having been gone since lunchtime, I found her lying on Cormac’s bed. She’d somehow escaped her pen and was halfheartedly chowing down on my paperback. Which was probably the reason Cormac kept his own book stowed away in a drawer.
“Cookie,” I said in a scolding voice, and she had the nerve to wag her little nub tail.
Ihad the nerve to be charmed by it.
“I didn’t like the book anyway,” I admitted, rubbing her back. “You probably saved me from major disappointment.”
And what do you know? She barked.
Now she’s doing her anxious dance in front of the door, making low whining sounds in the back of her throat.
Yawning, I crack the door open and let her scamper out before I slip my shoes on and follow.
But when I step outside, there’s no sign of her.
Frowning, I peer into the shadows at the side of the fence. Is Cormac’s dog pranking me? I wouldn’t put it past her, but not even strangely intelligent dogs can become invisible at will.
My gaze catches on a patch of sidewalk, visible through the front gate, and then my mouth gapes in horror.
The gate is ajar by a few inches.
What the fuck?
Ididn’t open that gate. I haven’t left the house since I came back after my shift. In fact, I was so paranoid about keeping it closed that I checked the latch twice the last time I was out here.
I take a big step toward it and nearly trip over a small brown package sitting at the foot of the porch.
The mail carrier must have left it open, and now Cookie is running through the streets. She’ll get hit by a car, and it’ll be all my fault.
Oh my God, Cormac is going to hate me forever. The man wrote an entire manual about how she should be taken care of—a manual I definitely didn’t read—andcheck that the gate is shut before letting her outis probably in there and underlined.
I bound across the lawn, then burst through the open gate and glance wildly in both directions. There’s no sign of her.
“Cookie!” I shout, running up one side of the street, terrified that she might have gone the other way.
Cookie’s so short, she could easily get mowed down by a car. They wouldn’t even see her in the dark. She’d be gone before they had a chance to slow down…
“Cookie!”
“Shut the fuck up!” someone shouts out of a window, so I probably can’t count on neighborly spirit to help me find her.
Adrenaline floods my bloodstream, and I sprint down the street faster than I’ve ever run before. But when I reach a side street, I stagger to a stop. What if she went that way? What if she went the opposite way to begin with, and I’m running farther away from her?
Panic chokes off my air supply. I sit on the edge of the curb and cradle my head in my hands.Think, think.
I don’t like the answer my brain gives me.
Here’s the thing: if there’s one person who knows Cookie’s mindset better than any other, it’s Cormac. I’d rather eat flaming hot Cheetos than call him and tell him I’ve failed, but he’s exactly the person I need to call.
Heart pounding, I race back toward the house, hoping Cookie will miraculously be in the yard when I return. She andI can share a good bark-laugh about this whole thing and go back to bed.
But it’s empty.
Cookie is alone and lost.
My hands are trembling, and I can’t catch my breath. I know what it’s like to feel that way. When I was five or maybe six, I got lost at the Western North Carolina State Fair. I’d run up to the cotton candy stand to watch the candy form in a sweet cloud. But when I turned around, my father, who’d taken me by himself, wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. I wandered around, terrified and alone, for half an hour before someone wrapped a hand around my shoulder.
My mother had warned me never to go anywhere with a stranger, so I kicked the person in the shin as hard as I could.
