by Allen Zadoff
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Allen Zadoff
Cover art copyright © 2020 by Owen Richardson. Cover design by Phil Buchanan.
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Originally published in hardcover by Disney Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Publishing Group, in April 2020
First Edition: April 2020
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2019945906
ISBNs: 978-1-368-05319-8 (hardcover), 978-1-368-05373-0 (ebook)
E3-20200408-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
IT’S DARK WHEN I OPEN MY EYES.
I LAY PANTING ON THE SHORE.
“GOOD DOG,” HE SAYS WITH A GRIN.
I DREAM ABOUT A SOLDIER IN A BLUE UNIFORM.
I GET AWAY FROM THE WAREHOUSE.
IT’S GETTING LATE.
CHANCE LEADS ME THROUGH THE SHADOWS ON THE SIDE OF A HOUSE.
I DREAM OF THE BLOND SOLDIER.
CHANCE TAKES ME TO DOWNTOWN SANTA MONICA.
I FOLLOW MYRON PAST THE GROOMING STATIONS.
WE GO UP TO CHANCE’S ROOM.
TWO OFFICERS IN BLUE UNIFORMS STAND IN THE LIVING ROOM.
CHANCE IS CELEBRATING.
WE ABANDON THE BIKE AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE PROMENADE.
THE RAIN HAS STOPPED.
“WELCOME TO PETSTAR, WHERE YOUR PET IS THE STAR OF THE SHOW.”
THERE’S SOMETHING FAMILIAR ABOUT JUNEBUG’S FACE.
WE’RE SITTING BEHIND A 7-ELEVEN.
JUNEBUG SQUIRMS IN HER SEAT.
I OPEN MY EYES.
THE HOUSE SEEMS TO BE EMPTY.
WE WAIT TOGETHER IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE.
DR. PAO’S COMPOUND IS AT THE END OF A LONG ROAD.
THERE ARE GARDENS EVERYWHERE.
“YOU DON’T REMEMBER ANYTHING?” THE DOCTOR ASKS.
DR. PAO STANDS WITH HER BACK TO THE DOOR.
WE RUN THROUGH THE YARD, USING THE TREES AS COVER.
JUNEBUG DRIVES FAST THROUGH THE WEST VALLEY.
WE DRIVE INTO THE MOUNTAINS.
WE STAY HIDDEN.
THE DREAM RETURNS.
HIS SCENT IS MASKED.
THE SKY GLOWS OVER THE TREE LINE.
I RUN.
THE SITE HAS BEEN DESTROYED.
THE SMELL OF FUEL HANGS HEAVY IN THE AIR.
I PREPARE FOR A FIGHT.
THEY BRING ME TO CHANCE.
I CAN SMELL THE OCEAN THROUGH THE CLOSED WINDOWS OF THE VAN.
I DO NOT REMEMBER THE HORVATH FAMILY.
I WAIT UNTIL THE FAMILY IS ASLEEP.
I DIVE THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR AND DROP ONTO THE BEACH.
THE SUN IS RISING OVER MALIBU BEACH.
WE’RE STANDING OUTSIDE A DRUG TREATMENT FACILITY IN CULVER CITY.
I RUN THROUGH A DOG PARK.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For Jeff, Liz, and Sammy
IT’S DARK WHEN I OPEN MY EYES.
Pitch-black, like a night without a moon.
Where am I?
I can’t remember anything. Not my name or how I got here. Wherever here is.
I feel a deep, stabbing pain in the base of my skull. It radiates through my head, making it hard to think straight.
Why can’t I remember anything?
The floor rocks violently beneath me, causing my stomach to churn.
Get it together, girl!
I steady myself against the swaying motion. That’s when the smell hits me.
Diesel fuel. The odor is all around me in the darkness.
Get out!
I start to run, but I jerk to a stop, choked by something around my neck. I claw at it and discover a thick rope tied around me, traveling from my neck to the wall.
Who did this to me?
The smell of fuel grows more powerful, and a wave of panic rolls through me.
Calm down. Focus.
First step. Get this rope off my neck. I fight to squirm out of it, and when that doesn’t work, I try to undo the knot from the wall.
Not a chance. It’s wound tight, rock hard, impossible to unsnarl.
I’m in big trouble.
That’s when the idea comes to me.
Teeth.
I can use my teeth on the rope. It’s not my favorite idea, but desperate times, right?
I take the rope in my mouth. It’s wet with mildew and it tastes like old socks, but the instinct to survive drives me onward. I bite down hard, grinding at the fibers.
My jaw aches, but I don’t give up. I chew and chew. The rope softens with each bite, until at last it breaks, and I’m free.
Move!
I run and smash into a wall, slamming my face hard.
Not smart. The headache ratchets up to level ten, but I shake it off and keep moving, feeling my way in the darkness until I find a door. I search for the lever, praying it’s unlocked—
The door opens!
I see light ahead. And a staircase.
I race up the steps, away from the sickening diesel smell, moving toward the light. I pass through an opening at the top of the stairs and pop out into bright sun.
I blink hard, waiting for my vision to adjust.
Details come into focus. Blue sky above, dark water below. I’m on the top deck of a luxury yacht. In the middle of the ocean.
The deck is decorated with expensive furniture, but there’s not a person in sight. Who owns a fancy yacht like this, and why is it floating in the middle of the ocean?
I feel like I know the answers, but they’re trapped in my head and I can’t access them.
That’s when I hear it. The sound of a boat propeller fighting through the waves.
I run to the railing just in time to see a speedboat racing away from the yacht. There are four men on the boat—soldiers or officials of some kind. They wear blue uniforms that make them hard to spot against the color of the sea.
“Help! I’m trapped here!”
I shout at the top of my lungs, but the distance and the roar of the engine makes me doubtful they’ll be able to hear me.
“HELP ME!!!”
One of the soldiers glances back and elbows his buddy. I see the two of them talking, and a moment later, the speedboat slows and turns, coming around until it faces the yacht.
“Yes! I’m up here!”
I jump up and down, trying to get their attention. For some reason, the boat stays at a distance. One of the soldiers lifts a pair of binoculars and studies the deck of the yacht.
“Please help me!” I race in circles, fighting to be seen behind the railing.
The soldier reaches into a bag and pul
ls out what looks like a small pistol.
What’s he doing?
He lifts the pistol and aims carefully, adjusting his stance several times. Then he fires a red-hot flare into the sky.
At first I think he’s signaling to let me know I’ve been seen, but my excitement turns to horror as I follow the trajectory of the flare. He’s aimed too low, and the flare soars through the wind and drifts down toward the yacht, closer and closer, still burning bright.
I smell the fuel around me, and I see the hot light of the flare as it arcs toward the upper deck.
“No!”
There’s a loud whoosh as the flare hits the yacht and the fuel ignites. The explosion comes less than a second later, a thunderclap that shakes the entire vessel and causes the deck to tilt at a steep angle.
A pair of small boat shoes skid across the deck toward me and catch on a table leg. They are fluorescent-pink children’s shoes with hearts painted around the sole.
I have a brief memory of a girl, maybe eight years old with bright red hair, running toward me wearing the pink shoes. She’s laughing and holding her arms out to me—
The memory slips away, and I’m back on the burning deck. I look around for the girl, fearful that she might be trapped on the yacht with me. I listen and hear only the cries of seagulls in the distance and the crackling of the ship burning beneath me.
The ship is on fire and it’s sinking. I have to get away. But how?
I look over the side at the dark water, angry with white-capped waves. The speedboat with the soldiers is racing away, the vessel no more than a speck on the horizon.
The flare was not a mistake. They were trying to sink the yacht.
I don’t understand what’s going on, but I know I can’t stay here. I peek over the railing and see there’s at least a fifty-foot drop to the water below.
Another explosion rocks the ship, and the deck groans in protest.
I have no choice. I have to jump.
Can I survive the fall?
Time to find out.
I back up from the rail, crouch down, and spring forward, muscles rippling in my legs.
The yacht tilts as it takes on water, and I’m suddenly running uphill toward a railing that’s rising into the sky. I fight the angle, speeding up and leaping at the last second—
A high-pitched howl comes from deep in my throat as I clear the railing and jump into the unknown.
I LAY PANTING ON THE SHORE.
It’s twilight and the wind is blowing along the beach, sending a shiver through me. I’m wet and exhausted from hours on the open ocean, and I need to eat. Or drink. Or both.
Soon.
After the explosion, I paddled away from the sinking yacht and clung to a piece of wreckage, floating with the current, alive but in shock. I held on, kicking, then resting, then kicking again through the night and into the next day. Eventually I saw land in the distance and swam toward it.
Now I’m on this beach, and I’m so thirsty my tongue hangs out of my mouth and touches the sand. An abandoned towel lies next to me. A cartoon blue fish with giant eyes looks up at me, her face half-buried in the sand.
I roll over, using the towel to dry myself off. Then I drag myself to my feet and shake my body, flinging off water in every direction.
I hear voices carried on the wind.
People.
Two kids are throwing a Frisbee down by the water. I get a sudden urge to run down and grab the disk from their hands and play with them. I take a step toward the Frisbee, then I think better of it. It’s no time for fun.
Move, girl!
I turn away from the kids and trot across the sand, through a tangle of high grass, and up onto a concrete path that separates the beach from the houses on the other side.
A jogger approaches with a golden Labrador retriever on a leash by his side.
“Excuse me—” I start to say, and the dog explodes in a fit of barking, practically choking himself to get to me.
“What’s with you?” I ask him.
The owner pulls the dog back hard, and the two of them run past without speaking to me.
I dart across the path and find myself on a narrow street of dilapidated beach houses. It’s getting dark, and I can see families through the windows, moving around kitchens, putting out food, sitting together at tables.
The wind shifts, and I smell meat sizzling on a grill. I follow the scent until I see a family grilling in their tiny backyard. The mother manages the grill while the father puts out plates. There’s a dog under the table, a little corgi with a cute haircut. The boy waits until his parents are distracted, then he slips a piece of bread to the dog who hungrily scarfs it down.
My mouth waters as I watch. I get a flash of the redheaded girl in the pink shoes again. I’m sitting on an expensive marble floor, looking up at her as she smiles at me.
Am I remembering my family?
I draw closer to the boy and his corgi, fascinated. Suddenly the corgi is up on all fours and barking in my direction.
“Shhh,” the boy warns her, but the dog ignores him, focused on my scent and barking a nonstop alert.
“Would you keep her quiet?” the boy’s mother says.
The boy grabs the corgi’s collar and looks around to see what’s upsetting her. I silently back up and fade into the night.
I need to figure out why everyone’s reacting to me so strangely, but I can’t think straight until I get something to eat.
I’m drawn to the scent of garbage cans in the alley behind the house. My mouth waters.
I’m not desperate enough to eat garbage, am I?
I run over to the can, knock off the lid, and dive in.
I guess that answers the question.
My sense of smell is so acute, I can distinguish fresh from rotting garbage inside the bag. I’m disgusted with myself, but it doesn’t stop me from tearing open the bag to get at what’s inside.
A tiny dog races through the alley toward me, barking at full volume.
“It’s just garbage. Don’t get excited.”
I must be intruding on its territory, because the little thing won’t give up.
I turn and roar at the dog, shouting for it to get away from me. The barking instantly stops, and the dog whimpers and retreats.
“Sorry, buddy.”
I notice movement nearby and whip around, ready to defend my smelly treasure. Sure enough, there’s another dog next to me, snout-deep in a garbage bag just like me.
“What’s up with the dogs in this neighborhood?” I ask. “Why do you guys hate me?”
The dog’s mouth moves like it’s imitating me.
Strange.
“Are we going to have a problem?” I ask her.
I step away from the can, and the dog steps away.
I shake my head, and the dog does the same.
That’s when I realize.
The dog is me.
I’m looking in a broken mirror that’s been thrown out in the alley. A long, jagged crack runs down the center of my reflection.
I move closer and examine myself in the cracked glass. I’m a medium-size mixed breed with brown-and-white patches covering a muscular physique. I’m in great physical condition, but I look terrible. I’m dirty and my fur is matted. I lick at myself a little, trying to improve my appearance, but it doesn’t help much. Let’s face it, I’m a girl in desperate need of a bath.
When I turn my head, I see an ugly wound on the back of my neck, which is probably why I have such a terrible headache. There’s also a thick rope leash around my neck with a dangling section that has been gnawed off at the end.
This is the rope I chewed through in the dark earlier.
I stare at myself in the mirror, and I see the familiar brown patches over both eyes and the white stripe that travels down the center of my muzzle. I’m hit by two thoughts at the same time.
1. I’m the same dog, the same girl I’ve always been.
2. I don’t know who that dog is.
<
br /> I’m horrified to realize I can’t remember anything about where I come from or how I got into this situation.
I yelp in pain and frustration, the weird events of the last day catching up to me in a burst of howls. I’m embarrassed to be crying alone in a pile of garbage, but I can’t stop.
A loud whistle turns me around. A burly man with a shaved head is coming toward me, and he’s smiling like he knows me.
“GOOD DOG,” HE SAYS WITH A GRIN.
“Who are you?” I ask, but he doesn’t respond. He just stands there looking at me. Tattoos run the length of both arms, and he wears a sleeveless white T-shirt and long black shorts.
“I think you might be a stray,” he says.
Stray. What is that?
“I don’t know what’s going on,” I say. “I think something happened to my head.”
He squints at me, curious.
“I need help.”
“You’re barking a lot, girl. I’m guessing you’re hungry.”
Barking? I’m talking directly to him.
“Can you understand me?” I ask, slowing down the words in case he’s confused.
He looks at me, not comprehending.
This is weird. I can understand everything he’s saying, yet for some reason, he doesn’t understand me.
The man smells of strange dogs, and I look behind him, expecting to see them. But there are no dogs.
Why would a man smell of dogs with no dogs nearby?
I detect another scent, too.
Fresh meat.
He reaches into his pocket and holds out a chunk of meat in his hand. My stomach rumbles, and my mouth begins to water.
“Do you want something to eat, girl?”
I really want something to eat, but who is this guy?
“I help dogs like you,” he says as if he can sense what I’m thinking. “Lost dogs. Strays.”
“I’m not lost. I just can’t remember who I am.”
He smiles, again misunderstanding, and he puts the meat on the ground. He backs up a few steps, giving me space.
The man is smiling and his voice is friendly, but I’m suspicious. Why is he in this alley? Why is he talking to me?
But the smell is magnetic!
I edge toward the meat, sniffing. It seems okay to me, so I dart forward and grab the cube. I scarf it down and back up before the man can get near me.
