“Stop! Stop! Don’t shoot!” I’m yelling, but I’m not sure I can be heard over the cacophony of car horns behind me and the coughing of the campervan’s engine. I glance back: we’ve created quite a mess, and there’s a long backup of cars.

I’m running over the top of the dune now, and there, ahead of me on the beach, is Mr. Mash, ambling down to the water’s edge, casting a long shadow across the sand in the setting sun. On the ridge to my left, the policeman has raised the rifle to his shoulder.

Surely he won’t fire from there? I’m not much good at estimating distances, but it’s pretty much the length of the lane up to our house. A hundred yards? More? No one could shoot a dog from that far away…

Could they?

I do the only thing possible. Desperately, I alter my course so that I’m directly between the policeman and Mr. Mash. “Don’t shoot!” I’m screaming and, at the same time, “Mr. Mash!”

The silly, deaf thing turns round at last and starts trotting toward me. I don’t dare turn my head back to look at the shooter. I just run as fast as I can through the soft sand to Mr. Mash and then I fall on him and gather him in my arms, before turning and looking back up the beach.

The marksman has lowered his weapon. I can’t see his face, but he’s standing with his arms by his sides, and I know the immediate danger has passed. Now all I have to do is get back to the campervan.

I see it all happening as I stagger back up the beach with Mr. Mash in my arms, licking my face. I don’t dare put him down in case he runs off again, freaked out by all the panic around him. The policeman with the gun walks back to his vehicle, replaces the weapon in the trunk, and gets in the car, then slowly drives round to the campervan, whose engine is still chugging loudly.

Both of the officers get out of the car. One goes to the driver’s side of the campervan and talks to Clem through the open window. I hear him say, “Is this your vehicle, son?”

The other waits for me to approach, beckoning me with his upturned palm, a very impatient expression on his face. I stop a couple yards away, head bowed, Mr. Mash still in my arms.

“You, young lady, are very, very lucky,” he begins.

I hear the other one saying to Clem, “Turn the engine off and get out of the vehicle, son.” When Clem switches off the engine of the campervan, everything is suddenly quieter, and in the silence I begin to realize how crazy this whole escapade is.

“Well, well, well, laddie. Where do we start?” the policeman says to Clem. “How about dangerous driving? I think we’ve probably got an unroadworthy vehicle here an’ all…”

It’s all going on at once. Over by the road, only two cars seem to have been damaged and have pulled onto the side of the road. The traffic is moving again. The policeman who was talking to me has finished his lecture (“stupid risk…breaking the law…control your dog…”) and has told me to get back in the van with Mr. Mash. The full cull hasn’t started yet—only strays are being shot—but he must have thought that Mr. Mash was one till I came along. Sass is where I left her, but she’s crying quietly, and Dr. Pretorius has a face like a thundercloud: dark and brooding.

Clem has been taken to the police car, where he’s being frisked by the other officer, and…Ramzy? Where on earth is Ramzy?

As I climb into the van through the side door, he appears from behind the van and hops back in. The police officers haven’t even seen him.

“Where have you been?” I whisper, but he shakes his head to shut me up, keeping his hands deep in his pockets.

“You all,” says the officer who was armed. “Stay right here.” He swishes the sliding side door shut with a clunk, and we’re silent for a few moments, apart from Sass’s soft whimpering, which is really annoying.

But I can hardly blame her. There is a sadness rising in my throat: the sort of sadness that turns into a lump, then into a sob, and, if I’m not careful, soon I’ll be crying along with Sass and I do not want that. Instead, I stick my face into Mr. Mash’s neck fur and try not to be mad at him for escaping.

I stopped him from being shot. That’s good. But it has stopped us from getting to the dome, and that is very, very bad.

We stay like that for several seconds, Mr. Mash and I, till I’m aware of a movement in the front of the van, and the noise of Dr. Pretorius coughing violently.

When she’s finished, she takes a long, wheezing breath and says, “I guess I’m the only one who knows how to drive this bus. Outta the way—make room for a dying woman.” And, with that, she heaves her spindly frame over the bench seat, panting hard, till she’s sitting behind the steering wheel. Her hand pauses over the dangling key. “We got one chance, gang. One chance at this. If this battery isn’t charged by now, we’re toast!”

“But…but…” I don’t even know what I’m going to object to, and she is definitely not taking any notice anyway. The policemen haven’t noticed her in the driver’s seat yet, but they will soon.

“But what, kid?” she growls without even turning round. “Give up? I don’t think so. Besides…”

She turns the key. The engine wheezes, splutters…and…

Vrooom! It bursts into life.

“…we gotta job to finish. And it may be the last thing I ever do! Ha ha ha haaa!”