My light was out and I lay in bed with Jack beside me. My senses were on high alert. Blood surged through my body and my muscles tensed, ready to spring at a moment’s notice. My eyes could make out every detail of my darkened room, and I could clearly see the picture of me and Jack on my nightstand. My ears picked up sounds beyond Jack’s light breathing: the occasional groan of the house as the wind shifted, the rattle of the living room screen downstairs, and the hum of the refrigerator.
I fell into a black, dreamless sleep.
Suddenly I was awake, heart hammering, Jack barking and jumping. The metallic clang of trash cans resounded from the driveway. I flew to the window and looked down.
Coyote.
His fur was dark and thick, and his tail was a bushy bottle brush drooping behind him. He was about the same size as Jack but heavier. He tore at the chicken.
My legs weakened even as a jittery energy raced through my veins.
“Dad!” I fumbled with the camera. The first shot didn’t go off. “Dad!” Jack thrashed at the window and barked violently.
The second shot fired off and the coyote jerked his head up. He froze for a moment and I saw his yellow eyes piercing through the darkness. In that liquid yellow gaze, I saw all that he had done, all that Jack was being blamed for.
I bolted from my room with Jack at my heels. We rushed past Dad, who was just now coming out of his room, still numb from sleep.
“What?” he mumbled. “What are you—”
“Coyote!” I yelled from the stairs. I raced to the back door and flung it open just in time to see the coyote cut through the woods. Jack bounded over the steps and charged after it.
“Jack!” I shouted. The anger I felt toward the coyote now turned into dread for Jack. I tore barefoot through the woods after him.
I followed the sound of breaking branches and the drumming of Jack’s footsteps. We headed in the direction of Prater’s but at a sharply lower angle, taking us to one of the streets that ran parallel to ours behind the woods.
Jack sailed over a chain-link fence. Barking and high-pitched yipping erupted. I ran up to the fence and climbed over into the yard, my eyes scouring the dark lawn. No coyote. Just a little white dog on a back porch yipping at Jack and trembling. Jack ran along the fence, agitated and confused. He growled and whined and shook off my hand when I tried to calm him.
A porch light snapped on and flooded the backyard. My eyes darted to every corner—no coyote. I heard the door being unlocked, and a gray-haired man with a white T-shirt and a big belly yelled from behind his screen door.
“Who’s there?” His voice was deep and gravelly.
“Um … I am.” My voice quavered. “Joshua Reed.”
“Who?” The man pushed open his screen door and squinted at me.
“I—my dog—” I stammered. “He was chasing a—”
“Raccoon,” Dad said. He jogged up to the fence, but by his breathing I could tell he’d been running at breakneck speed.
I shook my head at Dad. “Not a raccoon—”
“Joshua, grab Jack.” Dad turned to the old man. “Raccoons have been dumping our trash cans. The dog had to go to the bathroom and took off after one.”
The old man scowled. “Need to control your dog better.”
“Yes, sir,” Dad said. “I’m sorry about the disturbance.”
The old man frowned, scooped up his dog, and disappeared back into his house, turning the light off.
I grabbed Jack’s collar and led him out through the gate.
Dad gripped my arm as we came out. “More trouble? After our last talk?” he growled. “Did you think I was joking?”
I spun and faced him. “I got his picture!”
“What?” Dad snapped, confused.
“I took a picture of the coyote. Now you’ll see.” I had to walk bent over since I didn’t have Jack’s leash and I couldn’t let go of his collar. “He was in our trash cans—I set a trap—didn’t you hear it? Didn’t you hear Jack barking? I kept calling you.”
Dad glowered at me. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Wait till you see the picture. Wait till everyone sees it.” Jack would be proven innocent and everyone would be sorry.
When we got home, I rushed upstairs to get the picture. There it sat on the windowsill, the evidence of Jack’s innocence. As I walked to the window, I heard Dad come into the room behind me.
I picked up the picture and stared at it. My insides crashed. It was a perfect picture—a perfect picture of the window frame and screen, nothing but darkness behind it.
“I knew it!” Dad thundered over my shoulder. He ripped the picture out of my hand and spoke to me through clenched teeth. “Nothing! Just your wild stories.”
“But, Dad—”
“I’ve had enough,” he said hoarsely, flinging the picture to the floor. “Go to bed.” His face hardened. “No more sneaking around.”
My eyes widened in protest. “I wasn’t—”
“Enough.” He slammed my door shut behind him.