Free As Simple as It Seems by Sarah Weeks

to his leg?”
    â€œHe probably got hit by a car,” I told him.
    Pooch stood with his left arm bent behind his back in order to use his thumb to scratch between his shoulder blades. Together we watched Jack wade out into the lake until he was chest deep and noisily lapping up water with his long tongue. Pooch kicked at a clump of old cattails, setting loose a shower of pale fluff.
    â€œCan I ask you something?” he said.
    â€œThat depends,” I told him, hoping I wasn’t goingto have to remind him that the subject of death was off limits.
    â€œDo you think if we pull this boat out of the mud, we could fix it up and get it to float?”
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    We gave it everything we had, but pulling the boat out of the mud proved to be much harder than either of us had anticipated.
    â€œMaybe we should try pushing it instead,” Pooch suggested.
    I wasn’t wild about the idea of wading out into the water.
    â€œGhosts aren’t supposed to get wet,” I told him. “We wrinkle.”
    Pooch didn’t question me; he just sat down and began taking off his shoes and socks. Then he rolled up his pant legs and waded out into the water.
    â€œBrrr!” he cried, wrapping his arms around himself and hopping up and down. “It’s freezing!” But I could tell he didn’t really mind it.
    I pulled while Pooch pushed, but even working at it from both ends our combined efforts were not enough to budge the boat. After a while Pooch waded back out and leaned over the side of the boat, lookingin at the stagnant water pooled in the bottom.
    â€œIt wouldn’t be so heavy if it didn’t have all this water in it,” he said.
    â€œWe could bail it out,” I suggested. “All we need is an empty can.”
    I thought of the tin can I’d left behind in the flower bed at home, where I’d been interrupted digging for worms. If only I’d remembered to bring it along. We kicked around in the weeds for a while hoping to find something we could use, but the only thing we turned up were a few moldy candy wrappers.
    â€œHow about we use a couple of my bottles?” Pooch offered.
    But after five minutes of painstakingly filling and emptying the tiny bottles, we abandoned that idea in favor of a different approach. Taking up positions on either side, we began to rock the boat like a giant cradle between us, finally succeeding in loosening it enough to be able to flip it over. Jack sniffed at the dark water with great interest as it ran out onto the ground and quickly soaked in.
    â€œHe loves anything that smells bad,” I explained.
    â€œSame with Dixie,” said Pooch.
    â€œWho’s Dixie?” I asked, suddenly remembering theanxious concern in Pooch’s mother’s voice when she’d asked where Dixie was.
    â€œDixie’s my mom’s dog,” he said. “She’s named after a paper cup.”
    â€œWhat kind is she?” I asked.
    â€œMaltese. She’s purebred, but she looks like a dirty old bathmat. And she bites. Especially me.”
    â€œHow come you’re allergic to all those other things, but you’re not allergic to dogs?”
    â€œI am,” Pooch said. “Unfortunately, Dixie’s hypoallergenic.”
    Without the water in it, the boat, although still heavy, was light enough for us to be able to drag it up onto dry ground. My heart was pounding so hard from the effort, I could feel it in my cheeks. I sat down on the ground to catch my breath, and Pooch, who was also winded, bent over, resting his hands on his knees. He reached around and started scratching the back of his neck.
    â€œYou nervous again?” I asked.
    â€œActually, yeah. See, there’s something I think I’d better tell you,” he said. “It’s about where my mom and I are staying.”
    â€œI know where you’re staying,” I told him.
    His eyes widened.
    â€œYou do?”
    I nodded.
    â€œI also know