This house is bigger than the ones around it, but similarly run-down, surrounded by a yard that’s unkempt and overgrown with weeds. We walk between rows of bushes until we come around to the back door.
“Why are you sneaking into your own house?” I ask.
He shushes me with a finger to his lips. Then he quietly opens the door and motions for me to follow him inside. We run through a musty living room full of old, worn-out furniture, then we scurry past a room where a few boys lounge, and scamper upstairs.
Chance opens the door to a bedroom, guides me inside, then quickly closes it behind us.
“This is my room,” he says.
I look around the small bedroom, trying to find out more about him, but there’s nothing personal in here. There are no posters, no books, no photos, not even a tablet to watch movies on.
“It’s called a group home. I’m only here for a little longer.”
“A group home? I’ve never heard of that.”
Instinct takes over, and I sniff my way around the small bedroom, inhaling the scent of desperate children who have lived here before. I see their faces like faded pictures, their expressions angry, afraid, lost. I whimper, overwhelmed by the emotion lingering in this place.
“What’s wrong, Wild?”
Chance looks at me with concern. I shake my head, flopping my ears and jowls to disperse the scent.
“You probably smell a lot of different people. Kids move in and out of this place all the time. I’m looking forward to the ‘out’ part of the equation. I’m going to see my mom on Thursday. That’s why I have to play by the rules.”
He opens the closet door. “I think we should put you in here,” he says. “Just in case someone comes in.”
I back away, thinking about being locked in Ruben’s truck earlier. I won’t allow myself to be trapped again.
“There’s nothing to be scared of,” Chance says. “It’s just an old closet.”
Chance walks inside and turns on a light. He picks up a bunch of dirty clothes to clear some space.
“I’ve never had a dog before, but I think dogs like to sleep on something soft, right?”
He takes a blanket off the shelf and lays it on the floor for me to use as a bed.
I stand outside the closet, watching him arrange it for me. He can sense my hesitation, so he steps out and moves away, inviting me to check it out.
I stare at the entrance, reluctant to go inside.
“I get it,” he says. “I have an idea.”
He takes a wooden hanger and puts it on the floor where the closet door meets the wall. Then he shows me how it won’t click shut with the hanger in the way.
“This way you won’t get locked in.”
I edge forward, sniffing my way into the closet.
“I’m sorry you have to stay in here, but if my house-mother—”
There’s a hard knock at the door, and Chance jumps to shut the closet door, leaving a small gap.
“Please don’t make any noise, Wild.”
A second later, I hear the bedroom door open.
“Lights out,” a woman says sternly.
I sense her energy fill the room, angry and unstable, and it makes me agitated. I press my eye to the crack and watch her. She has a face like a bulldog, and a big black hairdo that resembles an army helmet.
“Yes, ma’am,” Chance says.
The woman surveys the room, suspicious. “What kind of trouble are you getting into up here?”
“No trouble.”
“What happened to your eye?”
Chance quickly covers his face, trying to hide the black-and-blue mark where he was punched earlier.
“I guess I fell,” he says.
“Again?” the woman asks. “What will social services say if I return you with bruises all over your body?”
I want to bark at her to make her shut up, but I don’t want to get Chance in trouble.
“You’re out of here in five days,” the woman says. “Try not to walk into any more walls.”
She goes out and closes the door behind her.
I push open the closet, and Chance frowns.
“That’s the housemother,” he whispers. “I call her the Wicked Witch of West LA.”
He walks to the bedroom door. “I’ll get something to clean you up. Back in a minute.”
Chance goes out and leaves me alone in his bedroom.
I sniff at the blanket on the closet floor. It smells like the room, a combination of sweat and fear from the children who have lived here.
I don’t like the smell, so I sniff my way across the room, following Chance’s scent to his bed. I hop up where the scent is stronger. Chance’s smell is comforting to me, and I move around on the mattress and feel it bounce beneath me. I jump up and down a few times, enjoying the feeling of going airborne with little effort.
I land on Chance’s pillow, and the softness sends a ripple of pleasure through me. The exhaustion of the day pulls at me, and I yawn and stretch.
I probably shouldn’t do this, but I take Chance’s pillow between my teeth, hop down from the bed, and carry it into the closet with me.
I settle down on the pillow with my head between my front paws. I try to stay awake until Chance gets back, but I can’t. Before I know it, I’ve fallen asleep.