Free Bailey's Story by W. Bruce Cameron Page A

didn’t soar.
    I took it back over to where the boy was standing and spat it out.
    â€œNot aerodynamic,” Grandpa was saying. “Too much resistance. It has to sort of slice through the air.”
    â€œI just need to throw it right,” the boy insisted.
    Grandpa went back inside, and for the next hour the boy threw the flip again. And again. And again.
    I could sense frustration building in him, so after then tenth throw I left the flip where it had fallen and brought back a stick instead. I figured it would be more fun to throw, and it would definitely be more fun for me to catch.
    â€œNo, Bailey,” he said sadly. “The flip. Get the flip!”
    I barked, wagging, trying to get him to see how much fun the stick would be if he just gave it a chance.
    â€œBailey! The flip!”
    And then someone said, “Hi.” Ethan’s head jerked around. The person who had spoken was a girl, about Ethan’s age, I’d guess, standing next to a bicycle. I trotted over, wagging, and she patted my head.
    In one hand she had a basket with something inside it that smelled sweet and dark and rich. I knew that smell; it was called chocolate. But I’d never been allowed to eat any. I sat down, trying hard to look as nice as possible, so she’d hand the basket over to me.
    â€œWhat’s your name, girl?” she asked me.
    â€œHe’s a boy,” Ethan said. “His name is Bailey.”
    I looked over at the boy, because he’d said my name. I noticed something odd about him. It was almost as if he were afraid, but not exactly, even though he’d taken half a step backward when he saw the girl. I looked back at the girl. I liked her and her chocolate smell. I wagged.
    â€œI live down the road. My mom made some brownies for your family. Uh,” the girl said, gesturing at her basket with her free hand.
    â€œOh,” the boy said.
    I kept my attention on the basket.
    â€œSo, um…,” the girl said.
    â€œI’ll get my grandmother,” the boy said. He turned and walked inside the house, but I decided to stay with the basket. And the girl, of course.
    â€œHi, Bailey, are you a good dog? You’re a good dog,” the girl told me.
    Good, but not good enough to get some chocolate, I discovered, even when I gave the basket a nudge with my nose so she’d get the hint. She just laughed and shook her head. Her hair was light-colored and long enough to wave back and forth when she did that. She, too, seemed the tiniest bit afraid. Of what? The only thing around here that might make anyone anxious was a poor starving dog who needed a treat.
    â€œHannah!” Grandma said, coming out of the house. “It’s so good to see you.”
    â€œHi, Mrs. Morgan.”
    â€œCome in, come in. What have you got there?”
    â€œMy mom made some brownies.” I followed Hannah into the house.
    â€œWell, isn’t that wonderful,” Grandma went on. “Ethan, you probably don’t remember, but you and Hannah used to play together when you were just babies. She’s a little more than a year younger than you.”
    â€œI don’t remember,” Ethan said, kicking at the carpet.
    He was still acting oddly. He didn’t seem to be in trouble, though, so I took on the duty of guarding Hannah’s basket. Grandma set it on a side table next to Grandpa, who was in a chair with a book. He looked at the basket over the top of his glasses and reached in.
    â€œDo not spoil your dinner!” Grandma hissed at him. He snatched his hand back. I looked at him with sympathy, and he looked back at me the same way. Nobody ever let us have any fun.
    For the next several minutes, Grandma did most of the talking, Ethan stood with his hands in his pockets, and Hannah sat on the couch and didn’t look at him. Nobody ate a treat. Finally, Ethan asked Hannah if she wanted to see the flip.
    At the sound of that horrible word, I whipped my head