The old dog could smell the river underneath the smoke. He could smell the moldering leaves trapped by dams of rocks and sticks, the silver-scaled fish and tiny, frantic minnows. He could smell the mud and the mineral debris of stones crashing into stones as the water pounded over them.
Every few seconds he turned his head to make sure the boys were behind him—his boy and the other one, the younger one—and keeping up. The old dog couldn’t see them, but he could sense them, could hear their voices making words out of air. As he got closer to the water, he could feel his boy’s hesitation, and he began to bark urgently.
The boys stood at the river’s edge, and then the younger boy waded into the water and called out, Come on! You ain’t gonna drown! The old dog pushed at his boy with his nose, trying to herd him across, but the boy wouldn’t move.
Come on, Buddy! the younger boy called, and the old dog understood. The only way his boy was going to cross was if he thought his dog was in danger. And so the old dog took a cautious step into the river, feeling the weight of the current against his legs. He might make it across, he might not. The last time the water had carried him away, he’d been young. He’d paddled hard, kept his head up, made it back to shore. This time, the water would take him for its own. But what could he do but try to make it across, try to get his boy to the other side?
He followed the younger boy over a bridge of stones, scrambling from one to the next, his paws slipping then finding a hold. His heart beat hard against his chest, beat to the point of bursting, but the dog kept going, and halfway across he felt something behind him. Was his boy following? Was he crossing the river?
The shore on the other side was gritty with pebbles and sticks. The old dog, so very tired, made his way to a stand of bushes, and when his legs gave way, he went down slowly, curling into the earth. There was a moment before his eyes closed when he remembered the old woman’s porch and the food she’d bring him in the morning. You’re a good dog, she’d say, resting her hand on his head. You’re a mighty good dog.