It works. I immediately drop the squirrel, who tries to dash away but can’t, and ends up sort of limping sideways to the fence. She slips through an opening and disappears behind the garage. I want to feel relieved for her, but I know—I just know—that she will not survive the hour.
What was I thinking? Amelia would’ve been horrified.Iam horrified.
I look up at Miguel, who’s no longer waving the broom, and I feel so, so sad.
“Oh, Harold.” He’s kneeling now, and he has one hand on my back and another gently on my jaw. “Pobrecito,” he murmurs, examining my face. “That’s not like you.”
Well, it wasn’t—but now it is. And although Miguel’s being more tender with me than he has since the end of everything, that’s not comforting. Atall.
“Were you trying to show me something?”
Yes, I was! I was trying to prove to you that I’m fine, Miguel! Fine fine fine fine fine! Take me to Chicago!
“I’m going to have to call the vet,” he says, standing. “I think it might be time for doggy Prozac.”
I don’t know what Prozac is, but he believes something’swrong with me, which is the opposite of what I was going for. I hobble behind Miguel, barely in better shape than the squirrel I just mauled.
Maybe he’s right.
He’s definitely right. I’mnotfine.
How will I ever fulfill my duty in this sorry state?
I’ve just hid myself under the love seat in the living room when the front doorknob starts to rattle. “Miguel, it’s me! Open up!” yells Dane.
“Dios mío,” mutters Miguel, shaking his head. He yanks open the door and squints at Dane. “You do know we have a bell? Or you could even, you know, knock instead of scaring the stuffing out of the neighbors.”
“Sorry, chief,” says Dane, running a hand through his hair. “I was just excited.”
“To…dog-sit?”
“No, dude. I mean, no offense, Harold,” Dane says to me quickly.
None taken; as much as I enjoy Dane, I don’t want to be cooped up with him any more than he does withme.
“It’s just that I brought you a little gift.” Dane pulls his backpack off his shoulder and reaches into it. Then he hands Miguel a stack of papers and a tiny piece of plastic with a metal end. “Thumb driveandthe dead tree version, since I know you’re not big on computers.”
“I’m fine with computers. Not as skilled as you, but that’s only because I have better things to do than play Dungeons and Dragons all day. What is this, exactly?” Miguel asks, holding the papers right in front of his nose.
“It’s a report.” Dane bounces on his toes, waiting for Miguel to respond.
“Whatkindof a report? I can’t really make this out without my reading glasses.”
“Why didn’t you say so, chief?” He plucks the papers out of Miguel’s hand. “I’ve put together a rundown on the comings and goings of one newly infamous Chicago author. See, here’s his favorite bookstore, and then this is where he apparently likes to grab a beer, and this is his home address,” says Dane, pointing at some scribbles on the page. “I also printed a bunch of comments from some of his, ahem, ardent fans, which might contain other clues I didn’t catch yet.”
“Where did you even find all that?”
“Chat rooms, mostly. Also, on a forum for Chicago librarians, and a few other sources I probably shouldn’t reveal. But my dude, there’s more where this came from.”
“Where?” says Miguel, peering around the papers. “And…just, why?”
Dane pats his backpack. “Got my trusty laptop with me—and a change of clothes. And because what I’ve found might just be the start of our mission, you’ll need me.”
“Wait one second. This is a solo endeavor.”
“Nah. You of all readers should know no hero’s journey is complete without a guide.”
Miguel looks him up and down. “So, you’re…Gollum in this scenario?”
