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Authors: Nicholas Edwards

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In the middle of the night, the idea that she and Zack had
had the same dream had been really spooky. In the morning, with the sun out and the smell of breakfast floating into the room, it seemed more like something she must have made up. A dream
within
a dream, maybe.
She and her mother spent most of the morning weeding the garden, while her father mumbled something about a very important history journal he was
sure
he had left in his office over at the college—and sensibly escaped from this chore. Emily wished that she could come up with a good excuse, too, but when she tentatively pointed out that she should maybe go do some more reading, so that she would be prepared when school started, her mother just said, “Join the club.”
The whole time, Zack lay on the grass nearby, sometimes watching, but mostly napping.
“It still isn't going to grow, is it?” her mother asked, when they were finally finished.
It hadn't so far, so probably not. “It looks much
neater
now,” Emily said.
Her mother let out a sigh. “I like to be good at things, Emily.”
Emily laughed, since that was a
huge
understatement. No one would ever accuse her mother of putting out a halfway effort on
anything
.
They had homemade onion soup for lunch, which was really good, because they used Vidalia onions, and sautéed them very, very slowly. Then, they toasted slices of French bread in the oven, covered them with Gruyère cheese, and added them to the bowls.
By some strange coincidence—or
not
, her father managed to arrive back home precisely in time to eat with them.
“Took you quite a while to find that journal,” her mother said wryly.
Her father nodded, his eyes looking wide, and innocent—and a tiny bit sly—behind his glasses. “I know. It sure did. I really need to straighten that office out, don't I?”
“Well, when it comes time to clean the garage,”
her mother said, “I'm going to misplace a book in
my
office.”
If they had a garage-cleaning day, Emily might have to figure out some way to misplace
herself
for a few hours.
After they finished lunch, her father immediately began to do the dishes—which was a smart peace offering. Her mother went upstairs to do some work of her own, and Emily took Zack for a walk.
When they got to the road, he wanted to go left, and she wanted to go right. As usual. But she had no intention of following his lead. For one thing, if he decided to lift his leg or something against Mrs. Griswold's fence, she could already imagine how badly
that
might turn out. So they went right, but he seemed reluctant, and lagged behind her.
“Does your leg hurt?” she asked. “Or your ribs?”
Zack wagged his tail, but didn't pick up his pace.
She started to say something, but then she had this sudden image of Mrs. Griswold, sitting alone in her living room. The only light was coming from the television, and she looked incredibly sad. The image was so vivid that she stopped walking, and tried to figure out why it had popped into her head like that.
The dog looked up at her with great intensity.
Then, he turned around, clumsy with his cast, to head in the other direction.
“No, Zack,” she said. “We're not going that way. We're
not
. No way.”
He pulled in one direction, and she tugged—gently—in the other. After about a minute, the dog gave in, but instead of carrying his tail high, it sagged down.
She decided to ignore that, but it only worked for about ten steps. She stopped again, putting her hands on her hips. “Zack, I don't want to walk up there. She likes to be left alone, and we really shouldn't bother her.”
The dog looked at her, unblinking.
“Well, she
does
like it,” Emily said defensively. Because if she didn't, why would she keep to herself for years and years, and go out of her way not to be friendly to people? It had to be an intentional choice, right? “And she doesn't like us, remember? She doesn't like
anyone
.”
But now, she had an even
stronger
image of Mrs. Griswold, her expression haunted and lonely, sitting at her kitchen table and staring down at a cup of coffee. It was probably her imagination, but it felt almost as though she was looking at a little private
snapshot of her neighbor's life—and it was disturbing.
And it was also disturbing that she didn't know if it was coming from her imagination, or Zack's.
To make it go away, she would just make herself come up with a different image. Emily closed her eyes and pictured them walking by Mrs. Griswold's house. As they passed, Mrs. Griswold came out onto her porch and shouted at them and shook her cane angrily. Then, she even picked up a
rock
and threw it at them.
The dog sat down, cocking his head at her.
Maybe she wasn't concentrating hard enough. Emily made herself re-imagine the scene, with lots of details—the sun, the sound of black flies and seagulls, the smell of wild blueberries and the ocean, the way the dirt road felt under their feet. This time, when she got to the part where Mrs. Griswold threw the rock, she had the stone
hit
her, right in the shoulder, as Zack stood by in horror.
But then, even as she tried to keep the dark pictures in her head, she couldn't shake an answering image of Mrs. Griswold on that same porch, smiling and waving at them. And—crackers. She had a clear vision of—saltines? Graham crackers? Hoarded
Crown Pilots, from before the brand was discontinued, upsetting Mainers everywhere? Anyway, for some reason, she couldn't stop thinking of crackers.
It was pretty unnerving, because the thoughts were so strong and specific, and she couldn't seem to get rid of them.
Also, even though she'd just finished a big lunch, she was suddenly very, very hungry.
Feeling confused—and kind of alarmed by the way her thoughts were jumping all around to weird places, Emily sat down on an old tree stump by the side of the road.
The dog followed her cooperatively, and flopped down in the grass. It must have felt very warm and comfortable down there, because his paws flexed happily and he thumped his tail a couple of times.
This whole situation was just getting too confusing. Was she
really
thinking her dog's thoughts? And was he thinking her thoughts? And were they actually having the exact same nightmares sometimes? Or, was she making all of this up? Was there any way to find out for sure? Because, increasingly, the entire concept was really making her nervous. Either she was reading her dog's mind—or she was crazy.
Or, possibly, both.
“Zack, are we inside each other's heads?” she asked aloud. “Because it feels that way.”
The dog rolled playfully in the grass, looking happier than ever.
“Did I have your dream last night?” she asked. “Because—I think I did.”
Okay, she
must
be making it up, because he was obviously thinking his own thoughts, and having a very nice time doing it.
Crackers. She kept seeing crackers. On a white plate. All kinds of crackers.
Piles
of them.
She didn't mind crackers, but it wasn't like she was crazy about them. So why couldn't she get them out of her head?
She looked down at Zack, who was still lounging in the grass, just as happy as a clam.
Although, having watched people dig up clams at low tide for
years
, the expression had never made sense to her, because how happy could they really be? Their lives didn't seem particularly interesting, or rewarding.
“Do you like crackers?” she asked him. “Do you
want
crackers?”
Zack looked up at her with the dog version of a big smile.
Was that a yes? It would be a lot easier if he
could
talk
, and she could find out for sure what was going on.
Okay. She would try once more, and then give up for the day. Emily put one hand over her eyes, to try and shut the rest of the world out, and imagined herself standing up, and walking down the road directly towards Mrs. Griswold's house, opening her gate, and walking up to the front door.
There was a jingle of metal tags as Zack scrambled to his feet and strained at the leash, clearly in a hurry to get moving.
She could pretend that wasn't a very clear response—but it would be a lie.
It looked like they were going to have to go walk by Mrs. Griswold's house—
again
.
As they walked down the dirt road, Zack ambled along
pleasantly, stopping every so often to sniff at bushes and flowers and, once, a turtle, who was sunning itself in the middle of the street. Her dog looked up at her with alarm, and once again, she wasn't sure if
he
was picturing cars racing down the road in a cloud of dust and putting the turtle in danger—or she was.
Either way, that's what she immediately thought.
“Stay here for a minute,” she said to Zack, “okay?”
Then, she bent down and picked up the turtle—which was much heavier than she expected. It was also awfully reptilian, the way its legs and head moved, but it didn't try to bite her as she carried it well off the road, into the woods. She decided that the best place would be near a small stream, but behind some big rocks that the turtle might not be willing to climb over to get back to the road. Then,
she returned to where Zack was waiting and he wagged his tail.
It
seemed
like he was pleased with her for making sure that the turtle would be safe—but, also, he might just be wagging his tail. Dogs did that, after all. She was just going to have to start accepting the fact that they seemed to be able to understand each other so well—and
enjoy
it, instead of overanalyzing.
Emily slowed down when they got near Mrs. Griswold's house, because she would still much rather turn around and go home. Then, she saw that Mrs. Griswold was sitting in a wicker chair on her porch—pretty close to the exact way she had imagined it—and she felt a little sick to her stomach. But, luckily, their neighbor seemed to be totally involved with reading a newspaper, so maybe they could walk right on by without being noticed, and Zack would be satisfied that she had made the effort.
But Zack stopped and barked a friendly little bark and spoiled
that
plan.
Mrs. Griswold looked up from her newspaper.
“I'm sorry,” Emily said quickly. “I didn't expect him to do that. He's usually very quiet.”
Mrs. Griswold pursed her lips. “Don't get all in
a tizzy,” she said, after a pause. “I daresay he was just being neighborly.”
Oh. Had Mrs. Griswold just said the word “
neighborly
”? “Um, yeah,” Emily said. “I think he was just saying hi.”
“Is it good for him to walk so much every day, all broken up like that?” Mrs. Griswold asked. “It seems to
me
that you're working him too hard.”
Was she being accused of being a bad owner? Emily reached down to rest her hand on Zack's head protectively. “We don't go very far. Our vet said that he was really smart, and I should pretty much let him, you know, follow his own instincts. But, he needs to get exercise, to help his lungs heal.”
Mrs. Griswold nodded, although her expression was still pretty critical. “Is he hungry? He looks hungry.”
It was a safe bet, since he was pretty much always hungry. They weren't supposed to
over
feed him, but sometimes, it was tempting. “Probably,” Emily said. “I guess I'll take him home and—”
“Well, it won't do not to keep him fed,” Mrs. Griswold said, sounding very stern. “He looks like he's starving.”
Did Mrs. Griswold think that they weren't
taking care of him? Emily frowned. “He's just thin. He had lunch, right before we went out.”
But Zack was stretching his head out over the gate, and sniffing enthusiastically.
“I don't want him in my yard running willy-nilly, and making a jumble of my flowers,” Mrs. Griswold said, her voice rising. “You be sure and always keep him on that leash, you hear me?”
Emily nodded, and tightened her grip on the leather lead. “Yes, ma'am. I mean, no, ma'am. I mean—” She stopped, not quite sure
what
she meant. “Well, that is—”
“Don't ramble like a ninny,” Mrs. Griswold said impatiently. “I hear tell that you're a right smart girl.
Act
like it.”
Emily couldn't think of a response to that—which probably didn't look very smart at all.
“And why is that animal staring at me so?” Mrs. Griswold asked.
Emily wasn't sure herself, but she followed Zack's gaze until she located an old white china plate on the table next to Mrs. Griswold's chair, which seemed to have a small stack of saltines spread across it.
Crackers.
Naturally.
“I'm sorry,” Emily said. “I think he's looking at
your crackers.” Maybe her parents were right, and she should really never feed him at the table. “I haven't had time to train him, or—”
“Well,” Mrs. Griswold said, and pursed her lips. “Since he's much too thin, I suppose it would be all right if he had one.” She hoisted herself up onto her cane, picked up two crackers, and made her way down to the gate. “Is he going to snap them out of my hand?”
Emily sort of wouldn't blame him, if he did, but she shook her head. “No, ma'am. He has good manners.”
“Well, we'll see about
that
,” Mrs. Griswold said, but held out one of the crackers, and Emily was surprised to see her hand shaking.
Zack gently accepted the treat, crunched it up, and then tilted his head engagingly.
“I suppose he wants the other one, then,” Mrs. Griswold said, sounding much more cross than she actually looked at the moment.
Emily nodded. “Yes, ma'am, I think he does.”
Mrs. Griswold gave him the other saltine, and after eating it, Zack leaned his head against Mrs. Griswold's arm in a friendly way, and wagged his tail. Mrs. Griswold grimaced—or, just possibly, smiled a little—and gave him a brisk pat.
Looking at the two of them, for the first time, Emily didn't just see a mean, angry lady; she saw what Zack had already sensed—that maybe this was a
lonely
person who, for whatever reasons, really didn't know how to be around other people. “Um, thank you for the crackers,” she said. “He liked them.”
“Well,” Mrs. Griswold said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Don't let's make a federal case about it. Off you go now.”
Emily nodded—and went. Quickly.
 
After she got home, she fed Zack again—because he was
always hungry. Then, she sat at the kitchen table, drinking some lemonade and watching her mother make a salad to go with the spinach lasagna her father had put in the oven a little while earlier.
“Did Mrs. Griswold used to have a dog?” she asked.
Her mother stopped chopping tomatoes and thought about that. “Yes. They had a little collie mix. I think her name was—Marigold or something. But that was years ago. Why?”
“I don't know. I just wondered.” Emily really couldn't imagine Mrs. Griswold naming a dog after a
flower
. Would Zack like it if she had decided to
call him “Petunia” or “Buttercup” or something? Very doubtful. “Was she always mean? Like, when you and Dad first moved here?”
Her mother shook her head. “No. I wouldn't say she was
friendly,
really, but it was in that normal Maine way. She used to be very active here in town, but—well, things changed.”
Emily had heard so many wild rumors, for as long as she could remember, that she had no idea if any of them were true. “Did she, um,
really
kill her husband?” she asked.
Her mother looked startled, and almost dropped the cutting board. “Why would you ask a terrible thing like
that
?”
That was a much more dramatic reaction than she had expected. Emily shrugged. “I don't know, I just wondered. Want me to set the table? Or, like, make a salad?”
“Emily Roslin Feingold, you are
not
going to avoid the question by offering to be helpful,” her mother said, and then paused. “Although, yes, I would appreciate it if you'd peel those carrots, and maybe a cucumber, too.”
Emily opened the drawer where they kept the utensils and took out an old vegetable peeler with a wooden handle, which had belonged to her father's
grandmother back in, like, the
thirties
—but still worked really well.
“Who told you that?” her mother asked.
Emily shrugged. “Well, people—not just Bobby,” she added quickly, “always say so. You know, down at Cyril's and stuff.”
Her mother sighed and took a bottle of freshly pressed olive oil and some balsamic vinegar from one of the pantry shelves. “It's a small town, and rumors get started. That doesn't make them true.”
Emily had assumed she couldn't be a murderer, or she would be in jail, right? “But,
something
bad happened,” she said.
Her mother nodded. “It was right around Christmas—oh, more than ten years ago, because you were tiny. I think they were driving home from a holiday party. But the roads were slippery, and they crashed on that terrible curve right before the big bridge.”
Part of Bailey's Cove consisted of small islands, which were connected to the main part of town only by bridges—they were known, respectively, as the big bridge, the little bridge, and the Cribstone Bridge. In some cases, the bridges were only accessible during low tide, and the people who lived on them were stuck, unless they could boat over to the mainland.
“Mr. Peabody heard about the accident on his scanner,” her mother went on, “and he and your father went out to see if they could help. You had an ear infection, and were running a fever, so I stayed here with you.”
Mrs. Peabody's daughter was a local police officer, and so the Peabodys spent
a lot
of time listening to their scanner, to make sure she was safe.
“So, Mrs. Griswold's husband was, um, you know?” Emily asked awkwardly.
Her mother nodded. “Yes, it was awful. And she was injured, and she's been on that cane ever since. She was driving, so I'm sure she blames herself. She's never been the same.”
That made sense. Emily closed her eyes and imagined a terrible winter accident, with Mrs. Griswold being carried into an ambulance and everyone standing nearby looking very grave.
The technique must have worked, because Zack—who was lying on a towel near the back door—sat up straight for a few seconds, before settling down again.
Her mother shook her head. “Sometimes, I would almost swear he was listening to us, wouldn't you?”
This was the perfect moment to tell her mother
all about what she strongly suspected—but Emily found herself feeling shy, and self-conscious. She
wanted
to tell her, but maybe she should wait until she was able to figure it out more clearly.
“Um, yeah,” Emily said, and flipped Zack a piece of carrot, which he crunched up. “It really
does
seem that way, doesn't it?”

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