Chapter 1

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1941

5:30 P.M. HAWAII TIME

Joseph Dean glanced over his shoulder. The dog was still there, keeping a block’s distance.

He had to be following him, right?

Joe had first noticed the dog back by the docks, where he’d ridden his bike to search for shells. He was midway through digging up what he thought was a conch shell—it turned out to be only a piece of one, which was useless for his purposes—when he’d felt a prickle on the back of his neck. He was being watched. But by who?

He’d looked around the beach and didn’t see any people—and then he spotted the dog, watching him from the mouth of an alley between houses. Joe had kept digging for shells, acting like he didn’t notice, but the whole time he’d felt the dog’s eyes on him. Then, when he’d hopped on his bike and ridden away, the dog had appeared behind his bike, always a block away. Now it was obvious he was being followed.

At first, when the dog had come trotting out after him, Joe had been a little worried he was wild or rabid, especially given how dirty his paws and face were. But the dog’s big, soulful eyes and the way his floppy ears perked up whenever Joe looked back at him made him look friendly.

I wonder if he’s even a he, thought Joe absently. Maybe it’s a girl dog—

He stopped himself right there. Why was he even thinking about it? Mama had enough mouths to feed with him, Pop, and Baby Kathy. She had enough on her mind. There was no way she was setting out an extra plate for some stray, even if that plate was just scraps.

Joe kept pedaling and tried to distract himself from the dog. He took a deep breath of the salty air and savored the evening around him. Even though the harbor was crowded with giant battleships and big industrial equipment, Pearl Harbor had one heck of a sky at sunset, calm blue giving way to blazing pink and burning orange at the water’s edge. The warm breeze tasted like sea salt, the shells in his bike basket gave off a fishy smell that he kind of liked, and in the distance he could hear a seagull crying out. Even though he sometimes missed his family’s old home in Texas, he had to admit that Oahu was pretty magical.

In a place this beautiful, you could close your eyes and forget that there was war brewing abroad—at least, until a B-52 from the American naval base ripped by and made your teeth rattle in your head.

Joe looked out into the sunset and did his best to keep his mind busy . . . but try as he might, he caught himself glancing back over his shoulder.

The dog was still there, looking friendly as ever.

Joe came to a halt, and the dog did the same. He smiled; it was like they both had the same feeling, wanting to get close but wondering if it was a good idea.

Darn it, why was he doing this? He’d have to get rid of the dog eventually. Better nip it in the bud while he had a chance.

“Go on, get!” said Joe, trying to sound mean.

The dog raised his eyebrows and looked over his shoulder before turning back to Joe. He looked like he was saying, Me? Are you talking to me?

“Get out of here!” said Joe, doing his version of Pop’s hard voice, the voice he used when he had to work late or had taken guff from some loudmouth sailor who thought tormenting the mess hall staff was his patriotic duty. “You can’t come home with me! Get going!”

The dog didn’t move—but then Joe heard him laughing!

No, wait, that wasn’t right. Whirling around, Joe locked in on the source of the laughter—two white sailors in blue uniforms, pointing at him while they shared a bag of roasted peanuts. They were young, barely out of high school by the looks of them, but swaggering like they thought they were commanding officers. He felt his cheeks burn as he lowered his head and tried to pretend he didn’t notice them.

“Nice try, boy,” said the sailor on the right, a short man with bright eyes and a sharp little smile. “Real tough guy, aren’t you?”

Joe said nothing. Pop had warned him about sailors like this. They’d call you “boy” and tease you just so you’d react and say something mean; then they’d get you in trouble for talking back to a white man.

They’re just bullies who like what little power they get by being born white, Joe told himself, repeating Pop’s words. The worst thing you can do is give them what they want. Then they win.

“Say, kid,” said the other sailor, a tall guy with a big block head, “why’re you messing around with that dock stray anyway?”

“He just started following me home, sir,” said Joe, laying the politeness on thick. Mama and Pop had always told him, even if a sailor is rude, you have to be polite back. Maybe they didn’t deserve it, but it wasn’t worth the trouble.

“Hey, Norman, isn’t that the dog that’s always swimming out by the Tennessee?” said the block-headed one, turning back to his beady-eyed friend.

“Oh yeah,” said Norman, chewing peanuts with his mouth open. “You’re right, Mulvaney, it is! We’ve seen that mutt before. Swims over to some of the guys eating lunch, begs for scraps. You must be attracting him with your stinky basket of shells there.”

The sailors walked over to Joe and peered into his bike basket. Norman sniffed, made a noise in his throat, and dropped his peanut shells into it.

That was it! Joe wheeled his bike back and picked the peanut scraps out of his basket. Before he could remind himself to be polite, he snapped, “This ain’t a garbage can, jerk.”

“Is that right? Sure smells like one,” said Norman, his smile looking very mean all of a sudden. He took another roasted peanut from the bag, cracked it open, dumped the nut into his mouth, and flicked the shell at Joe’s basket with a snicker.

“Whuff!”

All three of them started as the dog appeared between them. Joe hadn’t noticed the dog closing in, but suddenly he was there, facing off against the sailors. The dog didn’t growl or lower his head, but he let out one throaty bark—Whuff—that made Norman freeze in his tracks.

“Careful, Norman,” said Mulvaney.

“Ah, it’s fine, he’s just a tough dog is all,” said Norman. “Guess we know who the skipper of this ship is, huh, boy? Huh? I’m no trouble, boy. Who’s a good boy? You want a peanut?”

“You’re not supposed to give dogs peanuts,” said Joe. “It’s bad for them.”

“Oh yeah, wise guy?” said Norman. “Says who?”

“Says my dad,” said Joe. And just for good measure, he tossed in: “He’s the cook on the West Virginia.”

The name-drop worked—both men looked up at Joe with wide eyes.

“Your dad’s Marcus Dean?” asked Norman.

“That’s right,” said Joe. He relished the glance the two sailors shared. Everyone respected Joe’s dad, and not just for his Italian meat sauce. He was loyal, kind, and tough as nails. Besides, it was one thing to chew out a black serviceman on board a ship, but messing with his son on shore? Joe could tell these sailors knew better.

“Come on, Mulvaney, I’m getting bored,” said Norman, shooting a glare at Joe. “Careful with that dog, boy. You can’t be friends with every stray you meet by the docks.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Joe. As he watched the soldiers stroll off, he suddenly felt less sure of himself. Watching them run away at the mention of his dad was fun, but what if they were stationed on the West Virginia and saw Pop tonight for dinner? What if they mentioned him to Pop and complained that he’d mouthed off?

That’d be some birthday present for Pop, all right, getting chewed out by two angry white sailors coming back from shore leave.

Joe’s worries were interrupted by a cold nose brushing his fingers. He looked down to see the dog nuzzling his hand with a big happy look on his face.

Joe couldn’t stop himself—he pet the dog’s face and gave him a scratch behind one ear. The dog’s tail wagged like crazy.

Joe sighed. He knew Mama would be upset, and Pop probably wouldn’t be all too happy either—but he couldn’t just leave the dog out here. Especially not after he’d stood up for Joe!

“Okay,” he said. “You can come with me. But just for tonight, okay? And you have to be good. No barking or begging.”

The dog sat and stared at him with wide, bright eyes. To Joseph, it looked as if he were standing at attention. He remembered the sailor’s comment earlier, and he laughed.

“At ease, Skipper,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go home and I’ll try to sneak you some dinner.”

Joe got back on his bike and started pedaling. This time Skipper didn’t keep any distance at all between them but ran alongside him with ears flapping in the night air.

Joe smiled down at his new companion. It was just for the night, he told himself, and the dog wouldn’t cause any trouble. Anyway, what could happen in only a day?

Joe rode home with Skipper at his side, not knowing that in the next twenty-four hours, he’d be living in a country at war.