~
We didn't follow the dog with the gimpy leg looking for redemption, but somehow we found it. For one thing, the trees were showing out all kinds of colors that we didn't attend school long enough to know the names of. It was cold enough to wish I'd gone with the tweed coat instead of the nylon Braves jacket I'd wanted so bad. Crider had his father's old hacky-sack gloves on that his mother had surely wrestled onto his chubby fingers. We were all a little flustered by the time we reached the hills, Ally included. But so long as he was flush-faced and fiery, the rest of us burned with him.
Ally was a grubby, red-headed snark of a kid. As bid by the laws of nature, that made him our pack leader. He had watched his sister die in a house fire after he'd run out without her. No one questioned it. Then there was Crider. He'd accidentally killed his dog once -- something about his grandmother's oatmeal raisin cookies -- and came to his wits about the fragility of life. Since then, he never did anything that stirred the bile in his belly. I liked to harass him. Wesley, the muscle of the group, was big for twelve. He'd told everyone he'd played rummy with an owl once, but I don't think anyone believed him.
None of us go by our true names unless our mothers are yelling at us from across the street at dusk. Ally gets especially angry when you call him Alvin. And Wesley's name isn't really Wesley, but we're all too scared of him to ask for it. Me, everyone just calls Lou. My real name's Lucy, but if I told them that, I'd never live it down.
When we found the dog with the gimpy leg, he came from somewhere underground, I swear, out of nowhere. Crider shrieked and nearly lost his gloves in the mud. The mutt was standing there at the end of our felled tree, our knick-knacks scattered everywhere, wagging a dopey tail and lolling a dopey tongue. When he took off, jumping clean off the four-foot drop from the tree, we tracked the knee-high, waddling mutt through the hills.
By the time the snake appeared, we were too far into the woods to turn back. Crider had shrieked again, lost his hacky-sack gloves in the mud, and fell flat on his face, which had me laughing until I was red. The snake was small and gray, gliding dispassionately across the surface of a mossy cow pond without the slightest inkling we were there. Ally grabbed a stick too big for his little arms, shaking it at the creature, while Wesley plucked a tiny pebble from the ground, ready to shoot.
"I got bit by one o' those once," Wesley said, arm raised above his head. "I nearly died, but I sucked the venom out before it spread to m'heart."
No one believe him.
It seemed the vapor under our noses would freeze before the snake noticed us. It wasn't long before Ally gave up the wait and chucked his gigantic stick at the unsuspecting reptile. The stick, more accurately called a small tree, struck the little silver body and splashed into the water. The snake's tail sunk, suspended in bubbles, its head still floating above the water.
We ran for it, leaving Crider behind, still lying on his face. Weaving through low-hanging evergreens, we chased the dog to the road. There, he stopped, turning back to look at us, and we heard Crider start up screaming again back at the pond. It was Ally who started back first, hollering. Wesley and I stared at each other, then dug our heels into the dirt, scrambling down the hillside.
Crider was writhing on the ground when we got to him. Ally hovered over, his fist pressed to his mouth, fire in his eyes. A bright red set of pinprick holes in Crider's hand bled onto the grass. We all looked to Wesley, who panicked, shaking his head with wide eyes.
"I thought you knew how to do this, Wesley. Said so yourself," I screeched, looking hopelessly at Crider.
He didn't respond.
"Do something, Ally!"
Before time could count its seconds, Ally was kneeling on the ground next to Crider. He clutched a fat pocket knife is his right hand. In his left was Crider's bitten palm. Both their fingers were shuddering, their breath steaming. The knife made its mark, Crider flinching away, and Ally pressed his lips to the bleeding holes. Wesley and I just watched as Crider hyperventilated on the rocks, as Ally spit blood and venom to the dirt, and as the dog waited near the road. Then the two boys lay in a pile, shaking. Tears streamed down Crider's face.
"Ally." My voice came as a whisper. "Ally?"
He was silent, wiping the blood from his mouth. Wesley reached down and pulled Crider from the ground, cradling the panting boy against his chest. I grabbed Ally's arm and helped him to his feet. His skin was cold.
"Ally, we've gotta move," Wesley said. "I can carry y'all if I have to."
No one listened. He took off with Crider as the squealing of tires sounded behind us. There was a yelp. In Wesley's arms, Crider's eyes shot open, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
"The dog," he said. His voice was raspy, urgent. "Go back... Go back to the dog."
Wesley and I exchanged looks, then bolted.
We reached the road. There was no sign of anyone who'd stayed behind to find out what they'd done. The mutt lay on its side, limp as wet paper. His dopey tongue lolled. Crider struggled in Wesley's arms.
"Carry him, Lou."
Crider's eyes scared me, like Wesley's crazy stories. I shrugged off my Braves jacket and wrapped it around the dog's warm body. He was light, thin. I could feel his bones through the leather. My hands shook. We all shook.
When we reached Crider's house, we were all a little unsteady, Ally, the worst. We lay the dog on the couch beside Crider as his mother whisked around the house, little frantic noises coming from her throat. She'd shifted up a few gears since we'd stepped inside, Wesley holding Crider, me holding the dog. Ally remained silent, his face more pale than usual, trailing behind us.
"I lost my dad's gloves," Crider groaned from his seat.
"Crider," Wesley said, wheezing from the trek all the way back up the hills, "the dog's alive. You saved the dog." The mutt lay on the blankets, breathing softly.
Despite himself, Crider smiled through the haze of his oozing wound, his dark brown hair flopping into his eyes. I resisted the urge to harass him about it. Instead, I shouted at him.
"Crider, you scared me half to death!"
Wesley looked away, chewing at his nails. "Hey, Crider..." he hesitated. "You scared the daylights out of me, kid."
For once, we all agreed on something Wesley said.
By the beginning of winter, Crider had adopted the dog with the gimpy leg, the fire in Ally's eyes had vanished, Wesley admitted he'd never played rummy with an owl, and I never harassed Crider so long as I was alive.
By summer, the mutt had disappeared. A week later, he returned with Crider's hacky-sack gloves clamped between his drooling jaws. Then the dog with the gimpy leg took off again and, sure enough, we followed him toward the hills.
