The three of us continue past the turnoff to Ramzy’s street, slouching along in silence.

Dad calls Clem to check on the progress of the campervan and Clem has to lie, saying he’s been working hard, and adding words like “fuel tank welding” and “drive shaft” and “split axle,” none of which mean a thing to me.

“I’ve got to get back,” Clem says, picking up his pace. “Dad wants to do a test drive this evening. He’s got a buyer coming next week and the whole thing’s still a death trap.”

He turns off toward the workshop, leaving me and Ramzy to do the quick double-back along the hedge to the barn. I don’t think Clem sees me.

This thing with the Jackpot ticket, and then with Dr. Pretorius and the ambulance and the dome, and finally the gunshot that nobody mentioned…it has all brought Clem and me closer than we’ve been in months, but I’m still not ready to tell him that I’m secretly keeping Mr. Mash in the barn.

The smell hits me even before I open the barn door. An unmistakable reek of dog poo and vomited blood that I smelt before at St. Woof’s, but this is much, much worse. I gag and hold my nose as I rush inside, leaving Ramzy at the door. Mr. Mash is lying on his side in a pool of blood and puke, and I know immediately that my worst fears have been realized.

“Mr. Mash! Mashie! No, no, no!” I cry, and—without thinking—I rush forward and kneel down in the mess to cradle his head. He wags his tail weakly but cannot get to his feet.

Then behind me I hear, “Georgie! What are you doing? Get away from him now!” Clem is yelling at me, horrified, with Ramzy beside him, both of their faces creased with fear.

The stupidity of what I have done strikes me instantly. Handling a dog with a deadly infection? I leap up as though electrocuted and back away from Mr. Mash, who struggles up from the floor. “NO! No, Mashie—stay away,” I sob. “I’m sorry, stay away. Stay!”

I’m not thinking straight and move my hand to my mouth to stifle a sob, only to have it whacked away, hard, with a broom handle, wielded by my brother.

“Owww!”

Clem is beside me, speaking so quietly and calmly that it terrifies me. “Go to the tap outside, Georgie. Go now. Do not touch anything. Do not touch your mouth or your eyes or anything, do you understand? Take off all your clothes and rinse everything off. What are you waiting for?”

My face crumples and—I’m sorry—I start crying. “Don’t wipe your eyes!” shouts Clem. “Move!”

He is furious and scared, and I’m rooted to the spot with fear, both for myself and for Mr. Mash. I start to take my top off, but Clem yells, “Stop! There’s blood on your top that could get in your eyes. Stay still.”

He pulls on a thick pair of rubber mechanic’s gloves and, grabbing a pair of garden shears from the wall, comes toward me. He sees me looking at Ramzy, who is still in the doorway. He pauses for a second. I think he realizes that—even in a life-or-death situation—I’m hesitating about getting undressed in front of my friend.

“Ramzy—go up to the house. The back door’s open. Grab some towels from the bathroom and some clothes from Georgie’s room. Quick!” Ramzy runs off, while Clem cuts me out of my clothes. I turn my back to him, but somehow being naked in front of my brother is OK—probably because I have bigger things to worry about.

“Have you any cuts on your hands?” asks Clem. I examine my hands under the running water from the hose. There are none. “Your knees, where you knelt down?”

There are none there either. I begin to feel my panic receding a little. There’s a five-liter container of disinfectant behind the barn door, and I slosh half of it over me, pouring it on top of my head and making sure it covers every bit of me.

“Does it sting anywhere?” asks Clem. I shake my head.

“Good—that means you’ve got no cuts or anywhere the virus could get in. That stuff hurts like heck if you get it on a cut. I think, Georgie, you’re OK.”

I start to sob with relief, and just let Clem hold me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ramzy coming back down the lane, his eyes furiously studying the ground so as not to embarrass me, which is nice of him.

“I’m sorry, Georgie. It’s all I could find. It was hanging on the back of your door.”

I’m cowering behind the barn door, and from the other side he hands me my fluffy spaniel onesie with the floppy ears and a tail.

I zip myself into the spaniel suit (matching slippers too—thanks, Ramz), while Ramzy and Clem use a brush and the rest of the disinfectant to clear up the bloody mess that Mr. Mash has produced. He watches them work, his head resting on his front paws.

He seems to say, I’m sorry about the mess, boys. I didn’t mean it. I don’t feel very well, you see.

Then the three of us sit on the grass verge outside the barn. Clem has made a bonfire with my clothes (including my favorite jeans) doused in gas and they flame and smolder in a rusty iron firepit.

We don’t speak for ages, until at last I say: “He’s going to die, isn’t he? Mashie? It’s Dog Plague, isn’t it?”

Clem sighs. He puts his arm round me and squeezes. He says nothing: a nothing that means yes. I knew it was coming, but—strangely—it doesn’t make me cry again.

Instead, I swallow hard and look up the lane and beyond our house to the evening-blue sky and Mum’s tree bent over the horizon.