Free Christmas with Tucker by Greg Kincaid

get rid of him.” He slipped a chain around Tucker’s neck. “Looks like you two have become pretty good friends, so you can come up and play with him anytime you want.”
    For the first time in my life, I wanted to rip the limbs straight off another human being. My face turned red as a pie apple. Grandma put her hand on my shoulder. “Well, thank you, Frank. I’m sure George would enjoy that. You take good care of yourself.”
    It was just more than I could stand, watching Thorne head out the back door with Tucker. My grandparents and I were silent as we listened to Thorne’s truck pull out of our driveway. Suddenly, afraid I was going to say or do something I would regret later, I stormed out the back door. Once again, I had an overwhelming urge to run away from all this, but I had no destination. I simply stood in the dark, snowy yard, burning with anger despite the cold. I did my best to collect myself, for the sake of my grandparents, and after a while I went back inside. I still felt powerless and confused.
    The next morning, when the bus drove by Thorne’s house, I sunk down into my heavy winter jacket so Mary Ann wouldn’t see the upset in my eyes. Tucker was tied up, resting beside Thorne’s old brown truck, on a snowless patch of ground. Iwanted to jump off the bus and take him, bring him
home
, but I knew that was impossible.
    No matter how bad the roads, George, we just climb back up on the maintainer and try to clear the way. That’s all we can do
. I was trying to climb back up, but I just kept slipping. The path ahead was growing harder to follow.

Chapter 17
    THAT AFTERNOON , I got off the bus at Thorne’s house to visit Tucker. The brown truck was gone, but Tucker was in his usual spot outside, tied to the post. After knocking on the door and getting no answer, I sat on the ground by Tucker. Wanting him to know that I had not abandoned him, I held him in my arms for a few moments, wondering how to best negotiate with Thorne. Finding Tucker a good home was proving just as hard as finding the right one for me.
    Thorne’s house was a mess—the paint peeled down to exposed wood, tires and car parts in the yard, and lumber strewn all about. The place looked scary to me and unsuitable for Tucker.
    Armed with paper and a pencil from my book bag, I wrote a note to Thorne, opening with a little bit of salesmanship.
    Mr. Thorne
,
    I know Tucker is a handful to care for, so if this dog is too much work for you, I’m still interested in buying him. I’m
leaving for Minnesota in a few weeks, so let me know soon if you’re interested
.
        
Your neighbor
,
    
George McCray
    I stopped short of telling him that Tucker deserved a better life.
    After searching for a place to leave the note, I decided to tuck it between the old, ripped screen door and the wooden front door, with its dirty glass window. As I opened the screen door, I could not help trying to look inside. As I pushed my nose against the windowpane, the front door swung open—it was unlocked. Thorne correctly surmised that there wasn’t much worth stealing. Standing on the threshold, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light, I looked around.
    It was as I suspected: chaos. The house appeared to be one big room with a bathroom and a bedroom at the back. There was a table covered with beer cans, newspapers, and bottles. On one wall, there were some photographs I could barely make out. One looked somehow familiar, but it seemed so out of place that it made no sense.
    Before walking in to investigate further, I called out, “Mr. Thorne?” No answer. Wanting a better look at that photo, I took a chance and stepped inside. Trying to avoid piles of dirty clothes, broken car parts, and half-eaten bags of potato chips, I walked closer to the wall of photos.
    I peered closely at the photo. It was a picture of my dad as a young man with his arm looped around Frank Thorne’s shoulder. It looked like they were working on some old car, covered