by Allen Zadoff
“We’re looking for Myron the groomer,” Chance says.
The woman’s smile drops.
“Oh, um, just a moment. I’ll have to—”
She takes out a radio.
“Ask her what she’s doing,” I tell Chance.
“Who are you calling?”
A moment later, the supervisor from earlier comes around the corner in loud heels. She’s whispering into her cell phone, so I turn an ear in her direction.
“I think it’s the Nine,” she says. “Yes, I understand, sir.”
What is the Nine?
She hangs up and approaches us with a fake smile.
“I’m Dolores. How can I help you today, young man? And young dog?”
“We’re looking for Magic Myron.”
Dolores and the greeter exchange glances.
The greeter says, “We have other groomers on staff who—”
“Myron is our favorite,” Chance says. “He gets along with my dog really well.”
“Myron isn’t working today,” Dolores says.
But we saw Myron this morning.
I exchange looks with Chance. “Ask her when we can come back,” I say.
“Could we make an appointment for another day?” Chance asks.
Dolores taps her heel nervously.
“I’m afraid he’ll be gone for a while,” Dolores says.
“Let’s get out of here,” I tell Chance.
“We’ll come back another time,” Chance says, expertly picking up my cue.
Chance and I speedwalk toward the front of the store.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“I have a bad feeling.”
We pass the kind security guard who was on duty earlier. He motions for us to come over.
“You’re looking for Myron, right?”
“He’s our favorite groomer,” Chance says.
“He’s everyone’s favorite. But he had an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” Chance asks, surprised.
I hear the squeal of brakes outside the store and the sound of a heavy vehicle stopping too quickly.
“The kind you shouldn’t ask questions about,” the guard says through gritted teeth.
He leans toward us and his voice drops to a whisper.
“You have to get out of here. They pay people in the store to spy for them.”
“Who pays them?” Chance asks.
Before the guard can answer, the PA system crackles.
“Attention, customers, the store is closing. Please exit through the back immediately.”
Confused pets and owners make their way to the back of the store.
“Why the back?” Chance asks.
“I warned you,” the guard says, and he walks away.
“Let’s go out the front,” I tell Chance. “Right now.”
Chance follows me through the door, and I let out an involuntary yelp.
The parking lot is filled with blue Animal Control vans in a large semicircle facing the front entrance of PetStar. Dozens of AC officers wait by the vans, using them for cover. Most of them have black zappers in their hands. The air sizzles with electricity.
“Back inside!” I shout to Chance.
I turn and see Dolores locking the door behind us, then running into the depths of the store.
“I knew I didn’t like her,” I say.
“The guard was telling the truth about the spies,” Chance says.
I look at the multiple vans surrounding us. I don’t think there are this many Animal Control vehicles in all of Los Angeles County. Who are these people, and what do they want from us?
In the rear of the parking lot the commander of the Animal Control officers stands on the roof of a blue jeep.
“Stay where you are,” she announces through a megaphone.
“How did they find us so fast?” Chance asks.
“Dolores made a call when she heard we were there.”
I think it’s the Nine, sir.
“You’re surrounded,” the AC commander announces. “Walk slowly toward the officers and you won’t be harmed.”
“Do you believe her?” Chance asks, panic in his voice.
I look at the zappers and remember what happened at the group home.
I don’t answer Chance because I don’t want to scare him, but I know one thing for sure. We have to get out of here.
I scan the parking lot, trying to find an escape route. There’s a tight cordon of officers, their trucks parked nose-to-nose, blocking every exit. If I were alone, I might be able to dodge their weapons and leap over the vans, but I have Chance with me, and I can’t risk him getting hurt.
“There’s nowhere to go,” the commander says. “You have to surrender.”
On the edge of the parking lot, a black Honda Accord sideswipes an Animal Control van and races into the center of the cordon. Its horn beeps as it heads straight for us.
I bark loudly to warn Chance, and he screams and jumps back.
The Accord swerves at the last second and screeches to a stop barely a foot in front of us. The passenger side window is open.
“Get in!” a girl shouts.
“It’s the girl from the Apple Store!” Chance says.
Sure enough, Junebug is in the driver’s seat, blue-striped hair shining in the sun.
“Hop in the back,” Junebug shouts, and she revs the engine.
The commander roars into the megaphone. “You in the car. Throw the keys out the window and exit the vehicle.”
“Come on!” Junebug says. “We gotta Command-Option-Escape.”
“What do we do?” Chance asks me.
I don’t fully trust Junebug, but she seems like our best option right now.
“Get in!” I tell Chance.
Chance throws open the back door, and I leap into the car. He jumps in behind me and a second later we’re in motion, Junebug pressing the gas and accelerating through the parking lot, heading straight for one of the Animal Control vans.
“Put on your seat belts!” she says.
Chance quickly snaps himself in and puts a seat belt over my shoulder.
“We’re gonna crash into that van!” Chance shouts.
“Oh, please,” Junebug says, and she jerks the wheel at the last second, squeezing into a narrow space between two vans, so tight that the Accord scrapes both bumpers and sparks fly.
“So much for my dad’s insurance premiums,” she says.
We burst through the cordon, jump a curb, and land hard on the street beyond the parking lot. The tires skid and catch asphalt, and Junebug slams the gas, shooting up Lincoln Boulevard as we make our escape.
THERE’S SOMETHING FAMILIAR ABOUT JUNEBUG’S FACE.
I look at her and feel the same déjà vu I felt the first time I saw her on the phone in the Apple Store.
“Have we met before?” I ask her.
“I have one of those faces,” she says. “I’m a mutt. Everyone thinks they know me.”
She turns the corner like a pro and the tires squeal. How did a young girl learn to drive so well?
Chance must be having similar doubts because he leans over and whispers, “Do you think we can trust her?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“I can hear you both,” Junebug says, tapping her earpiece. “So you might want to gossip about me offline. Speaking of which, it looks like you guys figured out how to talk to each other. Congrats.”
I look at her strange earpiece, not at all like the tiny white earbud Chance found in my collar.
“Where did you get the device you’re wearing?” I ask her.
“It’s my own design,” Junebug says. “I use it for spoofing military communications. When it crossed your signal, we started talking, and I thought you were one of them. That was before I knew you were some kind of super dog.”
“I’m not a super dog.”
“Says the dog who’s speaking like a human.”
“Wild’s special,” Chance says. “T
hat’s why Animal Control wants her.”
“Animal Control? Are you kidding?” Junebug says. “Two dozen vans surround a PetStar in a coordinated capture. That sounds like a military operation to me.”
“Why would the military care about Wild?”
He looks at me, hoping I might have the answer. But I have none to give.
“What do you know about these vans?” I ask Junebug.
“I know what you know,” she says. “I stumbled into this, same as you guys.”
Chance looks worriedly through the back window. “Let’s find a way to stumble out.”
“Hello? Can I at least get a thank-you? I scraped up my dad’s new car to save you guys. Now I’d like to drop you off and go on with my day.”
She cuts left and right, expertly navigating through busy afternoon traffic.
“We don’t have a destination,” I admit.
“You’re running?”
“For now.”
She sighs. “I get it. Listen, then, I’m thinking the highway is our best bet. Clear out of the area as fast as possible.”
“Fast sounds good,” Chance says.
“The highway it is. Thanks, Junebug,” I say.
“Finally, a thank-you.” She slams the gas, accelerating up Lincoln Boulevard.
“Hey, how old are you?” Chance asks.
“I’m thirteen,” Junebug says. “But I’ll be fourteen soon.”
“Me, too,” Chance says. “We’re too young to have a permit. How can you even drive?”
“My dad taught me. I’m homeschooled.”
“Homeschooled? What’s that like?”
“Take the worst of school and the worst of home and put them together.”
“Yikes,” Chance says.
“Yeah, my dad is my teacher and my principal.”
“At least the principal taught you how to drive,” Chance says.
I hear a cacophony of horns behind us, followed by the familiar sound of the vans in pursuit.
“They’re onto us,” I say.
“We’ll be at the ramp in ten seconds,” Junebug warns. “Hang on.”
She mounts the ramp at high speed, jerking over to the breakdown lane to bypass the cars waiting in line. The tires squeal as they fight for traction on the tight curve.
Junebug alternates the gas and brake in perfect coordination, keeping us on the ramp for a critical few seconds until she hits the highway and barrels forward on a straightaway.
“I don’t feel so good,” Chance says.
Junebug frowns. “Don’t barf in my dad’s car, kid.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“Then don’t barf.”
Chance grumbles and gives her the evil eye.
“How did they find us again?” I wonder out loud.
“Same way I found you at PetStar,” Junebug says. “You’ve still got that GPS transmitter on you.”
“Is it your collar?” Chance asks me.
“Not possible,” I say. “We saw the van in the alley that first time before I even had the collar.”
“But you’re not wearing anything else,” Chance says.
“Bad news,” Junebug says. “If she’s not wearing it, it’s gotta be inside her.”
“Inside her body?” Chance asks nervously.
My heart pounds as I think about some kind of device being inside me. How did it get there? And how do I get it out?
“Check under her skin,” Junebug says. “Look for bumps or small scars where something may have been implanted.”
“I can’t do that,” Chance says quietly.
“Why not?”
“She hates being touched.”
“She’s your dog,” Junebug says.
“She’s not my dog,” Chance says. “She’s her own dog.”
“Please look for it,” I tell Chance. “It’s okay.”
Chance gently puts his hands on either side of my head by my ears. He runs his hands down my neck, and I shiver as a ripple of conflicting emotions moves through me. His touch is comforting, but it also triggers alarms inside. My instinct warns me to attack before he can hurt me.
“Try to relax,” Chance says, sensing the tension in my body. I take deep breaths, doing my best to relax beneath his touch.
He completes an entire pass down my back, then he checks my tail.
“I’m not finding anything!” he says.
“They’d probably plant it as far away from her collar as possible to prevent interference,” Junebug says.
“Maybe check my rear legs. And hurry. The vans are back,” I say.
“I don’t hear them,” Chance says.
“Look at your ears, and look at mine.”
“Good point.”
“Less talk, more action,” Junebug says.
Chance presses at various places over my legs and hindquarters. After a moment, he stops and doubles back over my right hip.
“I think I found something. There’s a hard patch under her skin.”
“Let me feel it,” I say, and I twist around, licking the area where Chance is pressing. I find a thin line of scar tissue from a past incision.
My throat goes dry as I realize Junebug was right.
“It’s inside me,” I say.
“How do we get it out?” Chance asks, his voice high and afraid.
“Do you have a knife?” Junebug asks.
“No, and I left my surgical kit at home, too,” Chance says.
“I only have my laptop,” Junebug says.
“Maybe we can drive to a vet clinic,” Chance says.
I hear multiple vans behind us, their high-charged engines distinct from the other vehicles on the road.
“The vans are close,” I say. “We’re out of time.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Chance says, panicking.
My stomach lurches as I realize what needs to be done.
“Move your hand and sit back,” I tell Chance.
When he lets go, I lick along my hip, finding the scar. Then I twist around and chew at my fur.
“No way!” Chance says, horrified. “You’re going to hurt yourself, Wild.”
“What’s she doing?” Junebug asks.
“You don’t want to know.”
I bite down, ignoring my disgust, and get a fang into my skin. I feel a sharp pain as my tooth pierces the flesh, followed by a burning sensation as I bite down and open a small cut above my hip.
“Now I’m really going to throw up,” Chance says.
The taste of my blood fills my mouth, firing off recollections of my battle with Thunder, and deeper things from my past, violent acts that sit on the edge of my memory.
I yelp and come back to the present, fighting to focus on the task in front of me.
The chip. I have to get it out.
I lick at the wound, and my tongue connects with a small square of silicon implanted on my hip muscle. I get a tooth under it and feel it lift from the tissue beneath it.
I spit it onto the seat in front of me.
“She did it!” Chance says.
I look at the microchip, a tiny black box with metal probes on one side where it was attached. I flip it over with my nose, and I see something printed in the corner, a word so faint it’s almost imperceptible: BREEDX.
“I’ve got you,” Chance says. He presses a T-shirt against the wound, applying pressure to stop the bleeding.
“What’s happening back there?” Junebug says.
“I found a Girls Who Code T-shirt to use as a bandage.”
“My favorite T-shirt!”
“It’s just a shirt,” Chance says. “Don’t cry about it, kid.”
“Not funny,” Junebug says.
Chance grins and throws me a wink.
Suddenly the inside of the car lights up, and I hear the sound of rotor blades above us.
“Is that a helicopter?” Chance cranes his neck out the window.
I don’t need to look. I can hear the helicopter above us, and my eye picks up th
e spectrum of laser light they’re using to mark our car.
“Animal Control doesn’t have friggin’ helicopters!” Chance shouts.
“I told you it’s not Animal Control,” Junebug retorts. “Get rid of the chip!”
Chance snatches up the BreedX chip and flings it out the window. It bounces across the pavement before it catches in the wheel of a truck and goes flying over the guard rail into the opposite side of the highway.
“It’s gone!” Chance says.
The van engines slow behind us, adjusting to the position of the chip. But the helicopter stays locked on target.
“They’re tracking us from above with a laser,” I say.
“Not for long,” Junebug says. She pulls off the highway and parks under the metal canopy of a busy gas station.
The helicopter lingers for a moment, then the glow in the car disappears and the helicopter veers away above us, following the chip.
“Are they gone?” Chance asks.
“Doesn’t make sense to stay on us if the chip shows we’re somewhere else,” Junebug says.
“You’re good at this stuff,” Chance says.
“Thanks for the compliment,” she says. “Keep ’em coming.”
“You both did a great job,” I say. “Now let’s get some bandages.”
“And some food!” Chance says. “But wait. I don’t have any money.”
“I have money,” Junebug says with a sigh. “By the way, you guys would make terrible fugitives.”
She pulls out of the gas station, tires squealing as she gets us far away from trouble.
WE’RE SITTING BEHIND A 7-ELEVEN.
Chance is next to me on the curb, both of us out of sight from the road, waiting for Junebug to buy food and medical supplies. Chance leans over me and applies pressure to the wound. The bleeding has stopped, but he’s worried, and there’s something nice about the attention and the way he wants to care for me.
“I’m so hungry,” Chance says. “I hope Junebug buys—”
His phone vibrates and he sits up, startled.
“It’s her!”
“Who?”
He yanks the silver cell phone from his pocket and answers the call.
“Hey, Mom,” he says into the phone.
I see joy and relief flood his face as he hears his mother’s voice. His happiness is infectious, and I find myself getting happy, too, sniffing at his legs and prancing around his feet.