I’m listening for her chain-jingle on the wrong side of our fence. Moving through the dry bamboo reeds we use as swords, the trees running branch tips through my hair. I consider the ticks, droplets bobbing on the leaves, bouncing in the summer dank . I call for her but I only hear the birds, and cricket squeak, and my brother shouting her name through cupped hands. Offering treats. “Bone!” He sounds serious.
Someone’d left the gate open—a crack—and she’s gone. Like that.
(it was my brother)
The woods behind my house feel like the biggest backyard—like there’s maybe a fence to keep her in, but it’s somewhere on the other side of the world.
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