Free Go Big or Go Home by Will Hobbs Page A

mile short of our driveway, we crossed the Carvers’ driveway. Attila had stationed himself there as if waiting for somebody to come home. I’d never seen him do that before.
    Here was something else I’d never seen. Attila started following us. Following me, to be exact, hanging right by my side.
    The most surprising part was, it wasn’t like he wanted a piece of me. The way he kept looking at me as he ran alongside, it was more like we were old buddies.
    â€œWhat’s that about?” Quinn called.
    â€œNo idea,” I replied. At first I tried yelling, “Go home, Attila, go home!” as I kept riding. He kept bounding alongside, unfazed. I put on a burst of speed, thinking I’d leave him in the dust, but he took it for a game and left me in the dust. I’d never seen a dog run that fast in my life. A greyhound would have choked on his exhaust.
    â€œWill you look at that,” Quinn marveled. “That beats everything.”
    The war dog was waiting for us at my driveway. Strangely, his tongue wasn’t even hanging out. I yelled at him to go home, this time at the top of my lungs. He barked back at me, at the top of his lungs, then wagged his tail. Not only that, he began to whine, like I’d hurt his feelings.
    We rode on up to the house, Attila trotting alongside. “Call the Carvers?” Quinn wondered.
    Before I even had to face the thought, Attila bounded for home across the footbridge and over the barbed wire fence. We shrugged, headed inside, and started pulling out our camping equipment.
    It was killing me to leave so much stuff behind, like cooking gear, my little Primus stove, and especially food. According to Quinn, all we needed was two plastic bowls and two plastic spoons, some granola, and some powdered milk. “It’s just an overnight,” Quinn said. “We’re not gonna starve.”
    I had to admit, he had a point. By the time we gotthrough packing our sleeping bags, fishing gear, jackets and rain gear, and so on, there wasn’t room for our toothbrushes.
    â€œIt’s almost 3:30,” I said. “You still think we can make it to the lake before dark?”
    â€œSure, but we better get going.”
    I wrote my dad a note, told him where we were headed, said we’d be back tomorrow. He’d always been fine about me going off camping with Quinn, no problem.
    Within a half hour we were blazing north through Hill City. No time to stop in and see Crystal. She spotted us flying by, though, and gave us a wave.
    From home it was a twenty-mile ride to the lake. Days were long, but we were going to have to blister some asphalt to beat the dark. As soon as we left Spring Creek, we started climbing the first grade. The clouds were building, and the wind was blowing against us. On the merits of my riding the day before, Quinn had me out front, drafting him. With all the weight we were pushing, this should have been a killer, but it wasn’t. Strange as it still seemed, I was going to have to watch my speed so I didn’t run Quinn into the ground.
    Traffic was heavy, including hordes of bikers southbound out of Deadwood. What a roar they made. No helmets on any of them, I noticed: like Uncle Jake, they were more afraid of helmet hair than they were of death.
    The wind was blowing harder all the time, always against us. Slow and steady, we won the race. The sunwas about to crash into a mountain as we pulled into the campground at Pactola Lake.
    The place was jam-packed. Every corner we turned, we found kids running around, music playing, dogs barking, steaks sizzling on the grills, picnic tables filling with food. Our chances of finding a campsite appeared to be south of zero.
    We downshifted past a couple of girls who checked us out with mild interest. No doubt they were thinking of inviting us to dinner. Hey, guys, we have tons of food. We’ll tell Dad to throw on a couple more steaks. Look, here’s a spot where you can