Chapter 4

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1941

5:17 A.M.

A hand touched her, and Skipper rose with a start and cried out, scared she’d been caught unawares by the men with nets.

But no, it was just the Joe pup. He put his finger to his lips and made the shh sound, and Skipper quieted down. It felt very early. Why was this pup up?

Joe waved to her, and she crept out of the alley into the street. It was morning now, pale and clear, so quiet and still that every smell and sound stood out.

“Skipper, come,” said Joe. He climbed onto his wheel machine and pedaled off. Skipper followed alongside him, easily keeping pace.

While she ran, feeling the sleep blow away from her eyes, Skipper smelled the morning. It had to be very early, just before the sun came out. All around her were the smells and sounds of the town waking up—hot water pots bubbling, delicious-smelling garbage trucks rolling along, a loud bell in the distance, the repeating sound of water crashing onto sand . . .

And something else. Skipper’s ears pricked up as she noticed the noise far off in the background, a buzz that she could barely recognize. It was a distant version of a noise she knew all too well, the call of the thing that made her want to run away more than any mean human . . .

Flying machines.

They were far off. They didn’t sound like the ones she was used to.

And they were coming closer, very fast.