15. Lost

When I get home, I can’t find Midnight. It takes me five minutes of calling out her name and looking around the house before I admit she’s missing. It takes another five seconds for me to go completely bonkers.

Mom’s not home. This is something I already knew. I race up the stairs and go into my bedroom again, looking in the closet and under the bed and in the covers. I scan the bathroom quickly again, then look in the small room that’s used for storage, even though we have nothing to store.

Midnight’s nowhere to be found.

I call her name. Over and over and over again. Each time I get louder. Each time I sound more terrified.

“Midnight!”

I look everywhere. In my mom’s room, in her bathroom, in our kitchen, in the laundry room. It’s not like this is a huge mansion or anything.

I search the kitchen cabinets. I even find myself opening one above the counter, and then I stop myself when I realize that dogs can’t fly.

Maybe they can in Solitary.

“Midnight!”

I go outside on the deck that is cleared but still a bit slippery, and I call out her name. It’s getting dark. I scan the road below.

For a second I begin to think bad thoughts. Awful thoughts.

I picture Jocelyn.

No please no.

I begin to hear the thoughts. The judging, condemning words. I see the pointed finger. The eyes of shame and blame.

“Midnight!”

The ten minutes feel like my body being stretched out ten more inches. My hands and legs are attached to separate chains, and they’re being pulled separate ways.

If she got out and roamed away I might never find her again.

I feel sick. Really physically sick.

I shout her name over and over like a crazy person, and in fact I’m shouting so loud I don’t hear the noise until I stop to take a breath.

A scratching sound.

It’s the last gasp of a dying dog before she departs.

Then I hear a little whimper of a bark.

That’s outside. No, wait, it’s inside.

I go back inside through the open door. The scratching is coming from the kitchen.

Then I realize that it’s coming from the back door. I grab the handle, and it turns—something it doesn’t do when it’s locked.

Dogs can’t open and close doors.

When I open it, I see the black little Shih Tzu standing there wagging her tail and looking up at me with a mischievous face. I pick her up and bring her face to mine.

She’s fine, besides feeling a little cold. As she licks my face, I realize that she’s also licking tears.