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pulled out the second one. She reached through the outer fence and tossed the lump into the pen, underhanded. As often as she’d come here with Sherman to bring the dog some sugar, these first minutes never became any less terrifying. “Chinaman,” she said, but her voice sounded shaky. She tried again, forcing a firmer voice. “Chinaman, you stop.” He stepped over his chain and backed away, eyeing her. “There’s your sugar. There it is .” Mamie pointed to where it had disintegrated on the ground. His pug face came up tilted and quizzical. “There,” she said, and pointed again. “You know me. You remember me, doncha? I’m going to come see you now. You be a good boy. Don’t you bite me.” His growls were mellowing to short, snorty grumps and groans. He barked at her once, ran sideways a few steps, dragging his chain, and barked again; then he ambled toward the sugar, sniffing the ground.
    The Chinaman was nearly as tall as she was, and she was as tall as a regular doorknob. His enormous tufted paws were as big as fists. Their father had told them to stay away from him. He said the Chinaman was half chow, and for all he knew the other half was timber wolf. When Sherman asked how he knew, he said the face and the black tongue came from the chow and the size and the coat came from a big breed, a German shepherd or a wolf; but he wasn’t muscular like a shepherd, more lanky and lean like a wolf. And he told them there was no meaner breed alive than a chow that had been mixed. Sherman said it was no wonder he was mean, because Mr. Ambrose beat him, and their father said that was his privilege, it was his dog. But Sherman pitied him enough to start taking him sugar. He said they understood each other.
    When Mamie opened the gate to his pen, she stepped directly into the bare circumference of his chain length and allowed the Chinaman to sniff at her from top to bottom. After his inspection, he nuzzled her and licked her with his black tongue. First he licked her face, then he licked her sugar-dusted palm, and finally, while she held it open, he licked the inside of her sugary pocket. She petted him and hugged his face and told him Sherman was hurt. The rolled-back tail twitched. She talked to him. She told him he was a good boy. Along his back she could feel hard welts under his fur. Then, while he watched, she went into the doghouse.
    Inside, the air smelled heavily of damp dog. She lifted the straw mat in the far corner and hid the paper bag under it. Outside, the gate squeaked open and closed. Mr. Ambrose’s house slippers walked past the square doghouse doorway, and his hand and sleeve set down a tin basin of water. She huddled in the darkest corner, careful not to shift in the straw. “Scat,” he said. He stamped his foot and the Chinaman backed from him. With the side of his slipper, he scraped something shiny along the ground. His hand came down and he picked it up. “Well, I’ll be,” he said. With her heart pounding, Mamie looked down her front and at her arms and hands, trying to determine what she might have dropped. Had she torn a hole in the sack and lost something? She wanted to dig the sack out of the straw and check it, but she was afraid to move. “Biggest damned shell I ever saw,” he said. Her hand searched the front of her dress, and it was gone—the bronze-colored locust shell she had saved, gone. His slippers came toward the doghouse door. Her mind raced. He’s gonna find me, find the sack, know what we did, tell … But the footsteps turned away. The gate clapped shut. The Chinaman sat, then lay down, wary and alert, peering at Mamie from the swelter of his domain. His eerie eyes squinted to slits as he yawned.
    She crawled out and peeked above the low roof in time to see Mr. Ambrose go into his house. She patted the Chinaman’s ruff, slipped from the pen, and went home the way she had come, down the