Dogs Read Online Free PDF Page B

cartons. That’s impossible. He can’t be outside and in my room at the same time. Then who’s there? Mr. Sinclair heaves the cartons in the cargo bed, gets in his truck, and starts the engine.
    â€œMr. Sinclair! Wait! Don’t leave. There’s someone in my room!”
    Not hearing me, he drives to the lane. I barrel down and race to the door. Too late. He’s gone. What do I do now? I pull out my phone to call Mom.
    Wait. If I tell her a stranger’s in the house, she’ll call the police—and what if I’m wrong? Maybe I just saw a cloud shadow cross the window.
    But what if I’m right?
    Calm down. I’m scaring myself for nothing. Who’d be inside? One look at this dump and a thief would know there’s nothing to steal. And what random guy’s going to break into a house in the middle of nowhere?
    What if the guy isn’t random? What if it’s Dad? He could’ve parked at the next crossroad and walked back easily.
    Stop thinking like Mom.
    Why? There’s always news about some guy who goes nuts and kills his family.
    Dad wouldn’t do that. Would he?
    I try to think of everything and anything except the last night we lived together. No use.
    I was eight. It was after supper. I can’t remember how it started, but Mom and Dad were fighting again. Their fighting was supposed to be a secret. There were lots of secrets with Dad. Like the secret about him teaching me how to swim and holding my head underwater till I thought I was drowning. “It’s training, Buddy.”
    This last fight, Dad started smashing stuff.
    â€œNot in front of Cameron,” Mom said.
    I ran upstairs like I always did, hid under the covers, stuck my fingers in my ears, and prayed I wouldn’t wet the bed like I used to do when they’d fight. I’d be so ashamed. “Don’t tell Dad,” I’d say, and Mom would hug me and promise.
    Anyway, the fight was so bad I could still hear them. Dad yelled the kind of stuff he always did: “Who is it? What’s his name?”
    â€œThere is no ‘he.’ There’s nobody,” Mom yelled back.
    â€œYou think I’m stupid? It’s that guy at the drugstore, isn’t it? Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen the way you look at each other. I know.”
    The screaming went on and on. I sang songs to myself to block it out, and then the police came. They drove me to a shelter where a woman put me in a room and gave me a teddy. I was way too old for it, but I didn’t care.
    â€œWhere’s Mom?” I asked. “Where’s Dad?”
    All they said was, “Your mom’s okay.” Someone kept checking in on me until Grandma and Grandpa arrived the next day.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Grandma said. “We love you. Everything’s fine.” They said Mom had had an accident and was in the hospital, and Dad was away on business. Then they took me to an apartment where we stayed for a month till Mom got better. They wouldn’t let me see her. When I asked why not, Grandma would tear up and leave the room.
    â€œWhen’s Dad getting back?” I’d ask, and when I was braver: “Why were there police?”
    â€œLet’s not think about that,” Grandpa said. “Let’s think happy thoughts.”
    But at night, when they thought I was asleep, I heard Grandma say, “He’s a monster. She can’t go back. Next time she could be dead.”
    Next time. Were there other times? When? Was it on those days Mom stayed in bed with the lights off? She’d say she had a headache or the flu. Dad was always nice those days. He’d bring home flowers and toys and order in pizza or Chinese takeout, and we’d watch TV together.
    I never saw Dad again, except on supervised visits at that government building. I remember the blue walls and the plate of cookies and the cameras and the social worker in the corner.
    I was scared seeing him at