by Peg Kehret
As Lacey headed toward the freeway on-ramp, her thoughts on her younger sister, the can of soda tipped over. Lacey grabbed for it, hoping it wouldn’t spill all over her skirt.
When she looked back at the street, she saw a minivan coming toward her from the right. She realized she and the minivan would reach the center of the intersection at the same time.
How did it get there so quickly? Had the driver run the stop sign? Or did I look away from the road too long?
Lacey slammed on her brakes, blasted her horn, and yanked the steering wheel to the left, trying to avoid a collision.
The other driver never slowed down.
In the split second before she hit the minivan, Lacey imagined everything she had worked for disappearing. An accident that was her fault would send her insurance costs through the ceiling. She would owe a big traffic fine, too. She’d never be able to afford college, even with the scholarship. She might even lose her driver’s license, which would mean losing her job.
The cars collided. Lacey smelled the hot rubber from her tires as she stopped.
Looking back, she saw the minivan jump the curb and shudder to a stop in an empty field. It didn’t roll over; it didn’t crash into a tree or a telephone pole. Nobody was thrown out of it. She was sure the driver would be okay.
I don’t need an accident in my life, Lacey thought. With my family history, the police might assume it was my fault whether it is or not, especially if the other driver is an adult. They’ll probably think I was speeding, instead of just distracted.
With her heart thundering in her ears, Lacey stepped on the gas and roared up the on-ramp to the freeway.
Her hands shaking, she merged into the freeway traffic, then got off again at the next exit. She pulled into a parking lot, trembling all over now, and stopped the car.
Had anyone seen the accident? Were there witnesses who would be able to identify her car? If the police came and found her, she knew they would be harder on her than they would be if she went back now.
She replayed the accident in her mind. No cars had been on the on-ramp ahead of her, and when she looked in the rearview mirror, there hadn’t been any cars behind her, either.
Remembering how the minivan plunged across the sidewalk, Lacey realized a person had been running through the field toward it. If the other driver needed help, someone was there.
She got out and examined her right front fender. The piece of plastic that covered the headlight was broken, and the fender was crumpled. But her car, including both front fenders, already had so many dents and dings that no one would ever notice this new damage unless she pointed it out to them.
It isn’t as if I hit a person, Lacey told herself. Even to save her own future, she would never drive off and leave a person who needed help. She knew that she was making excuses; it was wrong to drive away from the accident, whether anyone was injured or not.
I can still go back, she thought. I can still admit to what I did, like I told Danielle to do.
She imagined the police giving her a ticket for reckless driving. She imagined herself selling her car, probably for less than she had paid for it, in order to pay the fine. She saw herself telling Mrs. Grogan, her boss, that she had to quit because she no longer had transportation. The bus was not an option; she had looked into that when she took the job, thinking it would be cheaper than driving. But she didn’t get off work until eleven at night, and the next bus came at 12:30 and then stopped nearly a mile from Lacey’s house.
She looked at her watch. If she hurried, she could still get to the restaurant on time.
She poured the rest of the soda on to the parking lot pavement. Then she started the car and headed for Grogan’s.
5
Megan stood beside the white sign and watched the blue truck drive away. She knew it would not be easy to find homes for all the cats. They would need to be vaccinated against disease and neutered so they wouldn’t keep having kittens. All of that would cost money, which Megan did not have. She had already spent three weeks’ allowance on cat food.
She decided to ask Mom what to do. Even though Mom was busy, Megan knew she could count on her for help with something so important.
She moved slowly through the waist-high weeds toward the maple tree. If the cats were still eating, she didn’t want to scare them away.
A spot of orange color in the weeds caught her eye. Pumpkin, his body hugging the ground and his ears flat, was watching her. Good, Megan thought. Maybe they’re getting used to me. Maybe when it’s time to catch them, they won’t be so skittery.
As she reached the tree, she heard a loud screech of brakes. A horn honked. Megan looked toward the noise and saw a tan car slide through the intersection and smash into the side of a minivan. The crash of metal on metal was followed by glass showering to the pavement.
Pumpkin raced past Megan and up the tree.
The minivan veered toward the field, bumped over the curb and sidewalk, and lurched to a stop.
The tan car stopped briefly, then the driver accelerated.
As the car sped up the on-ramp toward the freeway, Megan caught a glimpse of the driver. She tried to get a license number, but the tan car was dirty, making the license plate hard to read, and the car was out of her sight before she could make out the numbers.
Megan rushed to the minivan to see if anyone needed help. The driver, a white-haired woman, did not move. The woman’s head was thrown back and her eyes were closed, as if she had fallen asleep; her wrinkled hands still gripped the wheel.
There were no passengers.
Megan tried to open the driver’s door, but that side of the van was bashed in. The door no longer worked.
She knocked on the window. “Are you all right?”
The woman did not respond.
Other cars stopped. People hurried forward to help.
One man yelled, “I have a cell phone. I’ve called 9–1–1.”
Megan ran around to the passenger side and was able to wrench that door open. A small gray dog leaped out. It had close-cropped fur and a stubby tail. Megan had not seen the dog when she looked in the window; it must have been on the floor.
The terrified dog took one look at Megan and at the people running toward the van, then dashed away into the weeds. Megan saw it run past the white sign and take off down the sidewalk. She hoped it wouldn’t run into the traffic heading up the freeway on-ramp, but a frightened animal in unfamiliar territory might do anything.
“Are you all right?” Megan repeated. She leaned across the front seat and put one hand gently on the woman’s arm.
There was still no reply.
“Help is on the way,” Megan said. “Someone called an ambulance.”
Other people crowded around the van, asking questions, trying to open the driver’s door.
“I’m a nurse,” said a voice behind Megan. “Let me see her.”
Megan gladly backed away and let the nurse take over.
I should try to catch the dog, Megan thought. It’s bad enough that this woman was injured in an accident, without losing her dog, too. The poor dog must be scared to death.
Megan hurried across the field in the direction the dog had run. She saw no cats. Pumpkin was probably at the top of the maple tree by now, and no doubt the other cats had run off or hidden somewhere the minute the van roared into the field. She hoped Mommacat wasn’t so frightened that she went somewhere else to have her babies.
Megan jumped on her bike and rode after the dog. She had ridden two blocks when she spotted the dog far ahead of her, still trotting down the sidewalk.
She heard the scream of a siren behind her; an ambulance was on its way.
Megan wondered why the driver of the tan car had not stopped. What if no one had seen the accident? What if nobody had been there to call 9–1–1 for the injured woman? Megan didn’t understand how anyone could drive away after an accident, not knowing if the people in the other car were hurt or not.
Pedaling hard, Me
gan gradually gained on the dog. The sidewalk went under the freeway. Megan heard the rush of traffic above her and smelled the exhaust fumes.
On the other side of the freeway the scared dog dashed into a cross street. A horn honked. The dog kept running. When Megan reached the curb, she had to wait for three cars to pass before she could cross. Dog, she thought, you’re lucky you aren’t a fur pancake.
As they got farther from the freeway, the traffic noise subsided.
Megan wished she knew the dog’s name. “Hey, doggie,” she said. “Good dog.” She figured most dogs who were family pets would know the words good dog.
The dog kept running.
Megan drew closer.
A mile beyond where the sidewalk went under the freeway, both the sidewalk and the street came to a dead end. A wire fence kept vehicles and pedestrians from going any further.
The gray dog flopped down beside the fence. His tongue hung out of his mouth. His sides heaved up and down.
Megan laid her bike down and walked slowly toward the exhausted animal. “Good dog,” she said softly. “Good dog. I’m here to help you.”
The dog raised his head and looked at her, but he did not get up.
Megan sat beside him. She closed her hand into a fist and held it toward the dog’s nose. He sniffed briefly. Megan gently patted the dog’s back. The dog rested his head on the ground again.
A tag dangled from the dog’s collar. The tag read Dinkle and gave a phone number.
“Everything’s going to be okay, Dinkle,” Megan said. “I’ll take you back to your mistress.”
At the word Dinkle, the stubby tail wiggled.
Megan wished she had a leash, or even a piece of rope. The dog wore a collar, but she had nothing to attach to it. She was a long way from the field—much farther, Megan realized guiltily, than she was allowed to go by herself. She hadn’t thought of that as she rushed after the dog.
She could leave her bike here and carry the dog all the way back, but she didn’t want to do that. She had not brought the chain and padlock that she used when she rode her bike to school because she had not intended to be away from her bike. What if someone stole it?
She wasn’t sure she could carry the dog that far anyway; Dinkle would get heavy in a hurry. Or he might jump out of her arms and take off again.
Megan petted Dinkle some more and tried to think what to do.
Lacey tried to smile and act pleasant as she showed customers to their tables, but in her mind she went over and over the accident. It was completely her fault; there was no way around that. How could she have been so careless?
She had learned in Driver’s Ed never to try to pick up a dropped item while she was driving. She knew better. Her mind had been on her sister when the soda spilled, but that was no excuse.
The restaurant phone rang while Lacey was seating a group in the private dining room. When she returned to her station, Mrs. Grogan said, “There’s a call for you, Lacey. It’s someone from the newspaper.”
Lacey’s heart leaped into her throat. “What do they want?”
Mrs. Grogan shrugged.
Lacey took a deep breath. Calm down, she told herself. How would the newspaper know anything about her involvement in the accident? Her voice trembled as she said, “Hello?”
“Lacey, it’s Valerie from the Daily Tribune. I’m the one who interviewed you at school last week for the graduation story. I just wanted to let you know that the article and your photo will be in tomorrow morning’s paper.”
Lacey managed to say “thank you” before replacing the receiver. She had been thrilled when the journalist interviewed her and asked permission to print her senior class picture. Now it no longer seemed important.
6
After sitting beside the tired dog for a few minutes, Megan removed her windbreaker, zippered it shut, and slid one sleeve under the dog’s collar. Then she tied the sleeves together at the wrists, pulling the knot as tight as she could.
Holding on to the bottom of her windbreaker, she stood up, letting the windbreaker act as a leash. She thought she could lead the dog this way and get him safely back to the field.
“Come on, Dinkle,” Megan said. “You’ve rested long enough. It’s time to head home.”
When Megan tugged on the windbreaker, the dog stood and followed her.
It was awkward to walk her bike with one hand. It wobbled when she went up and down curbs in order to cross the streets. It took far longer to walk back to the field than it had taken her to ride her bike away from it.
By the time she returned to the wrecked van, an ambulance had already taken the driver away.
Most of the people who had stopped to help or watch had left. A few stood in a group, talking about what had happened.
A helicopter circled the field; Megan knew it must be from one of the television stations.
Two police cars were parked near the white sign. The blue lights on top of the cars swirled around and around, making the sign look like an ad for a carnival ride.
Two officers searched the street where the accident had happened. A third directed traffic around the site. A woman carrying a large camera took pictures of the scene.
Another police officer walked toward the squad car.
Megan laid her bike down and hurried toward him. “This dog was in the wrecked van,” she said. “After the accident, he jumped out and ran away. I went after him and caught him.”
The woman immediately took a picture of Megan and the dog. Then she started scribbling in a notebook.
The officer introduced himself as Officer Rupp. He asked Megan questions about the dog. When he discovered that Megan had actually witnessed the accident, he wrote down her name, address, and phone number, then questioned her even more.
She told him everything she remembered. Yes, she had seen the car that drove away. Yes, she had seen the driver. No, she did not get a license number. Officer Rupp wrote her answers down.
The woman listened, too, making frequent notes.
“I may need to question you again,” Officer Rupp said. “I’ll call you if I do.”
“All right.”
“You can untie the dog now,” Officer Rupp said. “I’ll take him.” He looked at the tag that hung from the dog’s collar. “Dinkle?” he said. “What kind of crazy name is that?”
The dog wagged his tail.
“Hi, Dinkle,” Officer Rupp said.
Dinkle wiggled all over and licked Officer Rupp’s pant leg.
“What will you do with him?” Megan asked. “Do you know where he lives?” She knew it really wasn’t her business, but she felt connected to the dog after chasing him and petting him and bringing him back to the field. She felt as if Dinkle was her friend.
“The driver was not able to talk,” Officer Rupp said. “There was a name in her purse of who to call in an emergency, but no one answered. As soon as we can, we’ll contact a family member or friend and tell them where to pick up the dog.”
“Will you keep him with you until then?”
“He’ll go to the county animal shelter.”
“The shelter where the dog catcher takes strays?” Megan asked.
“We can’t watch him at the police station, and we can’t have him riding along in a squad car.”
Megan looked down at Dinkle. She didn’t want him to be locked in a cage at the animal shelter. He had been through enough.
“Could I keep him until you find out where he should go?” Megan asked. “He’s getting used to me, and my mom won’t care if I bring him home.”
The policeman hesitated. “You’re sure your mother will let you take him?”
Megan wasn’t sure at all, but she thought she could talk Mom into it, especially since it would probably be for only a few hours. “Yes,” she said. “He can stay in my room.”
The officer reached down to pet the dog. “He’d be a lot better off with you,” he said. “A day at the shelter and he’d be even more traumatized than he already is.”
“Then I can take him home?”
Officer Rupp nodded. “I’ll call as soon as I’ve talked to his owner or her family. Someone may come to pick him up yet today.”
The woman handed Megan a business card. “I’m Amy Gleason from the Daily Tribune,” she said. “Your picture will probably be in tomorrow morning’s paper.”
Megan grinned. She would call Chelsea tomorrow morning and tell her to be sure to read the newspaper.
When Megan got home, Kylie was drawing with chalk on the sidewalk in front of the house—and singing about it.
Megan interrupted the song. “Where’s Mom?”
Kylie did not look up. “She’s making dinner,” she said, “and you’re in trouble for being gone a long time and not telling her where you went.”
“I’m a hero,” Megan said. “My picture might be in the paper tomorrow morning.”
Kylie quit drawing and looked at Megan. “Hey! Where did you get the dog? Do we get to keep him? What’s his name? Why are you a hero?”
With Kylie chattering at full speed, Megan led the dog inside.
“Mom!” she called. “You won’t believe what happened to me.”
Mrs. Perk came out of the kitchen.
“Megan found a dog,” Kylie said. “She’s going to—”
“Hush, Kylie,” Mrs. Perk said. “Let Megan tell it.”
Megan did. She told about the screeching brakes and the crash and the injured driver. She told about the nurse who stopped to help, and about chasing the dog, and how she tied her windbreaker around Dinkle’s collar. She told about the police and the journalist and how Dinkle was going to go to the county animal shelter unless Megan brought him home.
When she had finished, Mrs. Perk said, “Gracious, Megan, you are a one-person animal rescue society. First a bunch of cats, and now a dog. All in one week.”
“The policeman said Dinkle would be better off here than at the animal shelter,” Megan said. “Can I take care of him? It will only be for a short time.”