My body aches from the fight and from the impact of crashing through the window. When I’m far enough to be safe, I curl up and lick myself, assessing the damage.
I’m scratched up pretty good, but the wounds are superficial.
I’m shocked by the rage I felt in the ring, and also by my incredible physical skills. How was I able to take on a rottweiler that was nearly twice my size?
Even stranger, why can I understand people when they can’t understand me?
I search for answers inside myself, but my memory is as foggy as it was when I first woke up on the yacht.
I hear a boy’s voice shout from somewhere nearby.
“Give it back to me!”
My ears perk up with curiosity. I take a step toward the shouting, but I stop myself. I can’t trust people after what I’ve just been through, and I want to avoid any problems.
“Help!” the boy shouts, his voice high-pitched and afraid.
I shiver and my fur stands up.
It’s a child. In trouble.
I pause in midstride, instinct pulling me toward the voice rather than away. I turn the corner to have a look.
Three older kids confront a skinny young boy who is backed up against a wall.
One of the kids has something that the boy wants. It’s a silver cell phone that glints in the streetlight.
The older kid holds it up, high out of the boy’s reach.
“I need it back!” the skinny boy says.
“I neeeeed it,” the older kid says, mocking him.
“I’m waiting for a call!”
The older kid puts the phone to his ear, pretending to receive a call. “Hello, Puberty? I’m scared, could you come back in a few years?”
“You’re gonna break it!” the skinny boy screams, and he grabs for the phone, unintentionally bumping into the older kid.
Without warning, the older kid punches him in the stomach, doubling him over. The boy tries to get away, but he’s trapped between a brick wall and the three kids hovering over him.
“This is not your business,” I say to myself, but something won’t let me leave.
A low growl rolls from my chest, and the gang of kids turn toward me.
“Leave him alone,” I warn them.
“Stop barking at me, mutt,” the older kid says, and he punches the boy in the side. The boy gasps for air and drops to the ground, hitting his face on the pavement.
Something snaps inside me, and I’m overwhelmed by a desire to protect the skinny boy against his stronger opponents.
I dart between the attackers’ legs and stand next to the sobbing boy on the ground.
The three older boys look at me, startled.
“Is this your attack dog or something?” they ask him.
The boy squints, surprised to find me next to him. His brown hair falls across the bruise that’s forming near his eye. He blinks, uncertain of where I came from.
I edge closer, silently communicating that I’m here to help.
“Yeah, she’s my dog,” he says, picking up on my energy.
“Bullcrap,” the oldest kid says. He shouts and stamps his foot to shoo me away.
“Nice try, kid,” I say, and I bare my teeth and roar at full volume.
He goes pale, and he drops the silver cell phone and backs up. His friends do the same.
“To heck with it,” the older kid says. “I’m not in the mood for rabies this week. Let’s go, guys.”
“We’ll kick your butt later, Chance,” one of the other kids says.
Chance? Is that the boy’s name?
The kids walk away, and my rage dissolves. Chance whimpers on the ground next to me. Before I know it, I’m whining along with him.
He looks at me strangely. “Why are you crying?”
It’s some kind of instinctual bond, and I can’t help it.
Chance sniffles and stops crying, and I do the same.
“Weird,” he says, then he pulls himself to all fours and looks around.
I can hear the older boys’ footsteps moving away down the street.
“Why did you help me?” he asks.
“Maybe I don’t like bullies,” I say.
He looks at me strangely. “You bark like you’re trying to talk to me. Or maybe I just got punched in the head and I’m imagining things.”
He checks the street around us, then he groans and gets to his feet. He immediately grabs for the cell phone, snatching it from the ground and bringing it up to his face, frantically pressing buttons.
“Come on, come on,” he says, biting his lip. It takes a moment before the phone comes on, bathing his face in a blue glow.
“Yes! It still works.”
I watch him, intrigued by his energy, intense yet vulnerable.
“I keep my phone on all the time, even when I’m sleeping. Just in case my mom needs someone to talk to.”
He wipes the screen on his shirt and, satisfied that it’s working, puts it safely away in his pocket.
“I should call the cops on those guys, but I can’t risk getting in trouble,” he says, and then he laughs. “Nice move, Chance. First you get beat up, and now you’re talking to a dog. You have definitely lost your mind.”
He rubs dirt from his hands, shakes the gravel out of his hair, then he turns to leave.
I whimper at the thought of being alone again. The sound embarrasses me, but I can’t stop.
Chance pauses. “Whoa, what’s going on with you?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I turn away from him and bury my face in my front paws, ashamed to be seen crying.
“I’m sorry, girl. I wish I had some way to say thanks, but I don’t have any food, and I can’t—”
He kneels in front of me, his voice low.
“Are you a stray?”
Stray. There’s that word again.
He studies me in the light of the streetlamp.
“It looks like you were in a fight like me. Are you hurt?”
He reaches for me, and I growl, warning him back. Despite how much I’m hurting, I don’t want to be touched by a human. Not yet at least.
“Easy there,” he says, pulling his hand back. “My name’s Chance.”
“I don’t know my name.”
“No collar, no tags. I don’t even know what to call you,” he says.
I look down, disappointed.
“Too bad we can’t talk to each other,” Chance says.
I whimper out of frustration. Chance reaches out to comfort me, but I jerk back again.
“You don’t like to be touched, do you?”
My reactions are confusing me. I want to be touched, but I don’t trust anyone.
“I get it,” Chance says. “It’s tough when you don’t have a home. And it’s probably scary out on the streets, right?”
He stands, and something on the back of my neck gets his attention. “You have this thing—it looks like a burn mark—on the back of your neck.”
“That’s why my head’s been killing me,” I say.
Chance frowns in disgust. “Who would do this to a dog?”
It’s a good question. Who did this to me, and how can I find them?
“I have to get home,” Chance says. “I wish I could help you, but my situation is messed up. If I get in trouble—Anyway, it’s complicated.”
He stands, hands on his hips as he looks down at me.
“Tell you what. I’ll come back tomorrow with some food. If you’re still around.”
“I’d like that,” I say, but even as the words come out of my mouth, I realize it’s not going to happen. There’s no way I’m going to stay in the area with Ruben and the warehouse people nearby. I don’t know where I’m going next, but I know I’m not staying here.
“Okay, then,” Chance says. He takes a step, then hesitates, talking to himself. “Don’t be stupid, Chance. You’re not allowed to have any pets.”
He turns and starts to walk away.
A high-pitched engine noise echoes off the alley walls around us. We both look up at the same time as a mysterious blue van glides slowly across the entrance to the alley, its windows blacked out.
Something about this van is familiar. The fur on my back stands up, warning me of danger. Instinctively I move deeper into the shadows.
“Do you know them?” Chance whispers. He follows my lead, pushing himself up against the wall next to me.
“I have a bad feeling,” I say.
The back doors of the van come into view. The words Animal Control are painted in white letters across the rear.
“What’s Animal Control doing out on a Saturday night?” Chance asks.
A spotlight snaps on from the top of the van, and a bright white beam shoots down the alley, scanning from side to side.
“Run!” Chance shouts.
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
I sprint down the street with Chance right behind me, the two of us staying just ahead of the spotlight as we race out the back of the alley.
We hit the main street and keep running, side by side, until we’ve crossed several intersections and we’re sure the Animal Control van isn’t following us.