“It’s annoying, right?”
“Yep.” She scuffs her jelly shoe in the dirt and Hairy leans into her leg.
“I think so, too. It feels like being told to be happy. Like, if I’m not enjoying life, let me figure out why. Don’t just tell me to be happyso you don’t have to live with a sad person. Honestly, it seems a little selfish to me—commanding someone to live, laugh, love.” I grin to myself. “And don’t tell someone to laugh. If they’re not laughing, the jokes need to improve.”
Silence from the boulder next to me.
“Are you sad today, Immy?”
She shakes her head.
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
“Tired?”
She huffs.
“Dumb question,” I chuckle, crossing my ankles in front of me. “You seem unhappy. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to walk anymore.”
That’s not all, though. She was grouchy from the moment she stumbled out of her bedroom this morning a few minutes after her dad left. “Okay. I found a spot for my rock. We can be done, we just have to walk back to my car.” I brush my hands on my legs. “Let’s go.”
“I’m tired of going places,” she mumbles to her dusty shoes.
“What do you mean?” I let the question hang. If I don’t move or say anything, I won’t startle her out of answering.
She sighs deeply, like the weight of life is bearing down on her fragile, five-year-old shoulders. “We go lots of places, but sometimes I want to go home.”
“Okay, I’ll take you back to the suite as soon as we get back to the car. I promise.” She must not have slept well last night. If I didn’t have to drag Hairy down this hill, I would have offered to carry her.
Her red, watery eyes blink up at me. They’re her dad’s eyes, and seeing them anything but bright makes my chest hurt. “No! I want to go home!” she screeches, and bolts up the path the wrong direction. Hairy bounds after her. Unfortunately, the dog is still securely tethered to my wrist.
I’ve been water skiing before. I’ve been pulled around a lake by a boat. Being pulled around the desert by the largest dog on planet earth is similar, but there are differences—face planting on water versus face planting on gravel, for starters. It hurts.
I scream, “Hairy! Stop!” while being dragged face down across the ground. I yank the leash with all my strength to pull myself more upright, but I’m still stumbling forward on my knees and elbows. I use the tension Hairy is creating to regain my footing, tripping ahead.
This dog isn’t stopping. And neither is Imogen. Pain vaguely registers in various parts of my body, but my only concern is catching up to Immy before she’s lost in the desert.
I tug on the leash, jogging to match Hairy’s pace. She can’t drag me if I outrun her. “Hairy! No! Bad girl!” I scold, heading in what I hope is the direction Immy ran. Hairy gallops at my side, seemingly content that we’re on the same mission. It turns out that when I’m not being dragged horizontally by her, Hairy makes a good running partner. Our pace is similar.
“Immy!” I holler. I spot her bright blonde ponytail bobbing ahead on the trail and my tense shoulders relax. There’s no way a kid in jelly shoes is outrunning me. I did our town marathon last fall and took third place in my age bracket. This is asinine.
I pick up the pace, relieved that Imogen is visible and safe. It doesn’t take long before we catch up to her. She has slowed considerably, marching uphill toward the end of the hike where there’s a stone monument and a view of the valley and small town below.
When we’re close enough, Hairy whines and pushes her wet snout into Immy’s hand.
“You can't run away like that, Immy. It’s dangerous.”
She swings around to face me, wiping her upturned nose on the sleeve of her shirt. “I don’t wanna be here!”
I take a deep breath. I don’t know a lot about kids, but in the short time I’ve had with her, I’ve learned that this one will match my energy. “I know. We’re going to leave, but you went the wrong way. The car is back there.” I say calmly, hitching a thumb behind us with a soft smile.
“No! I want to go to my house. I don’t want to sleep at a hotel and go in other people’s cars. I want to go in my dad’s car, and have my bed in my room!” she sobs.
Oh.
