Free Dogs by Allan Stratton

following me. Sounds of panting. Dogs. The dogs. I start to run. So do they. They bound through the stalks beside me.
    No, there’s nothing there. It’s all in my mind—just my sleeves rubbing against my jacket, my feet on the gravel, my breathing .
    I hear Jacky: “I told you. It’s all right. They won’t hurt you. I won’t let them.”
    â€œLeave me alone!”
    â€œBut you’re my friend.”
    â€œStop! You’re freaking me out. Go away!”
    I run up the lane to our farm, cornstalks on either side—see the glow of the house lights over the tassels—make the yard—barrel to the door—race inside.
    Mom looks up from the sink. “What’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
    â€œI’m fine.” I take off my jacket.
    Mom smiles. “Maybe next time you’re out at night you’ll want a ride.”
    â€œNo, I won’t, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œCameron, I’m teasing. We both know you have an imagination.”
    â€œRight.” Does she have to remind me I’m crazy?
    â€œSo how was your chat with Mr. Sinclair?”
    â€œOkay.” I grab a Coke from the fridge and head upstairs.
    â€œDid he have lots to tell you for your essay?” Mom calls after me.
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œI can’t wait to read it.”
    You mean I actually have to write it? Really? Is everyone’s mom like this?
    I sit at my desk and look out at the hole in the barn wall where I first thought I saw Jacky. Mr. Sinclair said that before Jacky disappeared, he had a raccoon-skin cap. That fits with what I saw, but lots of kids had caps like that, so maybe it means nothing. He also said Jacky left with his mom. So what’s the truth? Did Jacky’s father kill him? Or did he just move away?
    â€œJacky?” I whisper. “Jacky?”
    Silence. What did I expect?
    I have to talk to Cody. What does he know or think he knows? My heart beats faster. How do I talk to Cody without making him mad?
    I wake up with the answer. If I can get Cody alone, he won’t have to act tough for his gang; and if I tell him I believe in the murder, he won’t feel embarrassed. He’ll think I’m on his side. Who knows? Maybe he’ll start to like me. Or at least stop picking on me.
    At lunch, Cody’s gang heads to the highway for a smoke. I wait inside the door, sweating. When they start to swagger back, I go out to intercept them. A couple of them bark when they see me coming.
    I stick my hands in my pockets so the gang won’t see them shake. “Yeah, yeah, the dogs, big deal,” I say, like I don’t care. “I heard the story. I also heard there’s coyotes around. You guys had me going though. And you’re right about the house. I want to move—only a freak would wanna live there.”
    â€œNo kidding,” Cody says without smiling. He and his buddies keep walking.
    â€œHold up.”
    Cody swings round like he’s getting orders from a bug. “Huh?”
    I look him in the eye and try not to crap on myself. “Can I talk to you, please?”
    Sarcastic “Ooohs” come from the gang.
    Cody cocks his head. “What about?”
    â€œIt’s sort of private.”
    Cody waves the guys off. They step back. “Okay. What’s so private?”
    â€œIt’s about the murder at my farm,” I whisper.
    â€œWhat murder?” Cody’s voice is dead cold.
    â€œYou know, the murder back in the sixties. You think there was a murder at my place, right?”
    â€œWho says?”
    â€œI don’t know. I just heard.”
    His fists tighten. “From who? What did they say?”
    â€œNobody. Nothing.”
    â€œThey talk about my great-grandma?”
    â€œWhat? No!”
    â€œDon’t lie to me. If they talked about the murder, they talked about her.”
    â€œI don’t know what