feeling the stabbing pain in him and wanting to help.
“Go away, Bailey,” Dad said.
The boy opened his eyes, and he grinned weakly at me. “No, it’s okay. Good dog, Bailey, you caught the flip. Good dog.”
I wagged. He reached out with one hand and petted my head, and I spat out the flip, which to tell the truth didn’t taste very good. His other hand was curled up against his chest, blood dribbling out of it.
Cars and trucks began arriving, lights flashing. Men ran up to the house and began spraying it with large hoses. Some people brought over a bed and put the boy on it and lifted it up and put it into the back of a truck. I tried to crawl in after him, but the man at the truck’s back doors pushed me away. “No, sorry,” he said.
“Stay, Bailey; it’s okay,” the boy said.
I knew all about Stay; it was my least favorite command. The boy was still hurting, and I wanted to be with him.
“May I go?” Mom asked.
“Of course; let me help you,” the man replied.
Mom crawled into the back of the truck. “It’s okay, Bailey.” Chelsea’s mother approached, and Mom looked up at her. “Laura? Could you watch Bailey?”
“Sure.”
Chelsea’s mother took hold of my collar. Her hands smelled like Duchess. Dad’s hand, though, smelled of the fire, and I knew he was in pain. He climbed in to be with Mom and the boy.
Nearly everyone in the neighborhood was out in the street, but no dogs. The truck drove off and I gave it a single mournful bark. How did I know the boy would be safe now? He needed me with him!
Chelsea’s mother stood off to the side, holding me. I could tell she was a little unsure what to do now; most of the neighbors were collected in the street, but she’d been close to the house and now everyone acted like they expected her to remain there instead of joining her friends.
“No question but that it is arson,” one of the men said, talking to a woman who had a gun on her belt. I’d learned that people who dressed like this were called police. “The bushes, the tree, all of it went up at once. Multiple ignition points, lots of accelerant. Family is lucky to be alive.”
“Lieutenant, look at this!” another man called. He had a gun, too—the men in rubber coats didn’t carry guns and were still spraying hoses.
Chelsea’s mother hesitantly eased up to see what they were all looking at. It was Todd’s shoe. I turned my head away guiltily, hoping no one would notice me.
“I got this tennis shoe, looks like there’s blood on it,” the man noted, illuminating the snow with a flashlight.
“The boy got pretty cut up going out his window,” someone else observed.
“Yeah, over there. But not here. All I got here are dog tracks and this shoe.”
I cringed that the word “dog” had come up. The woman with the gun took out a flashlight and aimed it in the snow. “What do you know,” she said.
“That’s blood,” someone else said.
“Okay, you two, see where the trail leads, okay? Let’s tape this off. Sergeant?”
“Yes, ma’am,” a man said, approaching the group.
“We’ve got a blood trail. I want eight feet on either side of it cordoned off. Keep the traffic off the street, and have those people move back.”
The woman stood and Chelsea’s mother bent down, suddenly paying attention to me. “You okay, Bailey?” she asked, petting me.
I wagged.
She abruptly stopped petting me and looked at her hand.
“Ma’am, do you live here?” the policewoman with the gun asked Chelsea’s mother.
“No, but the dog does.”
“Could I ask you to . . . well, wait, are you a neighbor?”
“I live two houses down.”
“Did you see anyone tonight, anyone at all?”
“No, I was asleep.”
“Okay. Could I ask you to join the others over there? Or if you’re cold, please just give us your contact information and you can go home.”
“Yes, but . . . ,” Chelsea’s mother said.
“Yes?”
“Could someone look at Bailey? He seems to be bleeding.”
I wagged.
“Sure,” the woman replied. “Is he friendly?”
