The Buffalo Soldier by Chris Bohjalian Page B

there weren't more trees nearby: In the days after the girls' death--days in which most decisions were made with little or no thought--Laura had said something to someone about wanting the location to be sunny. And so it was.
    When they arrived at the twin tombstones, Laura knelt and placed the flowers on the ground and allowed herself to cry freely. She was about to get up when she felt Terry crouching behind her, one of his hands on her shoulder, and she decided to stay where she was. The earth was still soft and spongy from the warm front that had arrived on Tuesday, but she didn't mind.
    Before leaving, she brought her fingers to her lips and then pressed them for a long time against each of the slick and solid marble slabs.
    SHE CHOSE A black-and-white Border collie with fur that was thick and soft, and walked into the cement pen with the animal. Then, almost in a single motion, she rotated the collar around the animal's neck so the metal loop was at the back and clipped the collar to the clasp at the end of a long canvas leash.
    She runs and she barks, but she's very gentle, Laura said to Alfred as the animal pulled her out of the cage. Trust me, she's a real sweetheart.
    She handed the leash to the boy and watched as the good-sized dog yanked the boy's arm so it was almost parallel to the ground. The dog really wasn't all that big, but then neither was the boy. Sometimes when he'd move in a certain way and she'd see the shape of his knee or the width of his thigh in his blue jeans, she'd realize just how baggy the pants were on him and how thin his legs really were. One time at dinner she noticed his wrists, and they were so small that she feared he could probably have worn a napkin ring like a bracelet.
    And I should take her up the dirt road in the back? he asked as the dog pulled him down the hall toward the door.
    That's where most people walk them, she answered, but take her wherever you'd like. Then the boy and the dog were off. They raced out the shelter's back door, and the moment they were out of sight she experienced the slight tremor she always felt when the child was in her care and she couldn't see exactly where he was. Something would happen, and she would be powerless to stop it. To save him.
    She stood there until the sensation had passed, and then she went back upstairs to her office. It was the Monday before Thanksgiving, and the schools were closed for the week. She hadn't been sure what she would do with Alfred, and she'd considered taking the week off herself. She had no meetings of consequence over the next couple of days, and there was nothing critical she couldn't accomplish from home. But today, at least, Alfred had wanted her to go to work and he had wanted to go with her. He'd been to the shelter before that fall, but never for more than half an hour at a time.
    The county shelter was built into the side of a hill, and only the first floor was visible to any cars that happened to pass by. It had two and a half undeveloped acres around it, and around that was the road on one side and forest on the three others. In the back there was a dirt road--what had once been a logging trace--that went into the woods, and it was here where the volunteers usually walked the dogs.
    Upstairs, a mother with a baby in her arms and a seven- or eight-year-old girl beside her were still looking at the cats. The baby's nose had been running so long, there was a crust above his lips the color of melon, but he didn't seem unhappy. They'd been there for almost an hour, and had probably considered at least a dozen of the animals so far. Briefly Laura wondered if they had no intention of adopting an animal but were simply here as an outing. Perhaps they needed someplace to go with the schools on vacation, and Mom had decided the shelter was about as close to the zoo as you were going to get if you didn't want to drive all the way to Quebec.
    The girl looked nothing at all like Laura's own daughters, and she was