Chapter 4

The waves wake her. They are coming into the hole she's dug, washing in, a trickle at first, but then, more than a trickle.

The waves are washing in, and making her cold, just as the sun is hitting her face and warming it.

She gets up out of the hole, but she can't escape the waves. The way the man has tied her, the waves are just coming closer and closer. They are in the hole she's dug and now they're making her feet wet, and her legs.

She begins to whine and then to bark, but there is nobody to hear her. She can't see, can't see a blessed thing, but her hearing is good, and she hears nothing. No one.

The waves keep coming in, crashing and smashing onto the shore. It's not every wave that reaches her, but it seems that more and more do. The sun is bright on her face, but the wind is strong, and she is wet and cold and hungry, and she is scared.

Just when she is sure she can't stand any more, sure that she is too weak and too frightened, she hears a voice. It's a snatch of a voice, a ragged, torn bit of a voice, and it's the voice of a child, and as she listens, it comes closer and closer.

She barks a little and whines, and turns toward the voice and barks again.

"Mama! Mama! Look! It's a doggy!"

Little Zoe wags her tail, and she stands up tall, and the little girl runs up to her, splashing into the water, tugging at her leash and freeing her.

"Melinda, don't!" the mother calls. "You don't know anything about that dog. He could be mean."

"But, Mama, she's tied up, too close to the water, and Mama, Mama, she's not mean," the little girl says. "She's a nice dog."

Melinda picks her up, and cuddles her, and Zoe licks her face. She can smell something in the girl's shirt pocket, and she pushes her nose into it.

"Mama, she's hungry," the little girl says, and hands Zoe a cookie, soft and sweet. Nothing has ever tasted so good to the little dog.

Zoe feels the mother's shadow fall across her.  The shadow is large and cool. The mother smells like flowers.

"Mama, Mama, can we bring her home? Please? Please?"

The mother looks at the leash, and at her daughter holding this poor, bedraggled little dog. Someone left this dog here to die, she thinks. And she knows that this little thing, this wet and snarled little dog, somehow has a will to live.

And even though she knows it is the wrong thing to do, she pats Little Zoe on the head, and smiles at Melinda.

"Yes," she says, "We can bring her home. We can't keep her, but we can bring her home and clean her up and see if we can find out who she belongs to."

"But Mama, we can't keep her? Why not?" Melinda wails.

"Because," she says. "Just because we can't."

Because they've already lost their house, and they're not supposed to have pets in the apartment. Because her husband's job has been eliminated. Because they don't know how they will have Christmas, let alone where they will live. Because they can barely afford food and heat these days, let alone a dog and veterinary bills.

But this little dog can not be left alone on this cold and empty beach, and so Kristen puts her arm around Melinda, who holds Zoe close to her chest, and they walk together to the car