The Survivors by Will Weaver Page B

leave, a flock of mallards wheels high overhead, then banks to make a tight circle above the rice bed. “Thanks,” Miles murmurs.
    â€œYou’re welcome,” Sarah says, clanking her paddle.
    He doesn’t explain.
    As they paddle downstream, there is brown motion in the undergrowth. “There’s that dog!” Miles says suddenly. On the shore, he lurks from tree to tree, following them home.
    â€œBrush!” Sarah calls. “Hey, Brush!”
    â€œDon’t encourage him! And never feed him,” Miles says. “That’s why he hangs around—he knows we have food.”
    â€œMaybe he used to live here,” Sarah said. “Maybe he was Mr. Kurz’s dog.”
    Miles spits sideways into the water and keeps paddling. “He would have to be, like, a hundred dog years old. He’s just a stray dog who’s not going to make it through the winter.”
    â€œHe could live with us and be our watchdog,” Sarah says.
    â€œHe only has three good legs. Great watchdog.”
    â€œWhat will happen to him?”
    â€œDon’t ask me,” Miles says as they head on a straight course downriver.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SARAH
    AT SCHOOL SHE STAYS INVISIBLE except on the tennis court. The coach lets her play—red-shirt status, which means she’s “unofficially” on the team—and today she is panting and sweaty after beating Carolyn 6–3 and 6–1. As she tilts up her water bottle, Ray approaches the chain-link fence. She pretends not to notice him until the last second.
    â€œHey,” he says.
    â€œOh—hi, Ray.”
    They pause to watch the green tennis balls fly back and forth.
    â€œHaven’t see you around much lately,” Ray says.
    â€œYou either.”
    They are silent. Then Ray says, “Remember that football game?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou said you’d talk to me in school.”
    â€œI do talk to you!” Sarah says, turning.
    â€œBut not talk-talk. You know, like ‘quality time.’”
    Sarah giggles. “It’s not like we’re going steady.”
    Ray’s face reddens slightly. “You know what I mean.”
    She is silent. “Sort of.”
    They watch Mackenzie, who is also watching them—and because of it misses the ball.
    â€œLucky shot,” Mackenzie snaps, and slams a serve straight at Rachel, who ducks. To the side is Mackenzie’s dad; he often comes to watch practice.
    â€œHey, Sarah, want to step in?” Rachel calls. She is limping slightly.
    Sarah glances at the coach.
    â€œWhy not?” the coach says.
    On the court, Sarah bounces the ball twice, then lobs a nice serve to Mackenzie’s forehand. Slowly they volley back and forth; and from the rhythm, and the sunlight on the clean and tidy court, her mind starts to drift. Back home. Home-home to the suburbs, where the biggest problem she had was going over her cell phone minutes. Back then, she and her mother had their I’ve-had-a-really-really-bad-day signal: holding two rackets. It required the other—no questions asked—to stop everything and come hit tennis balls.
    Only now does Sarah understand how cool that was—how she and her mother didn’t have to say anything; they would just volley back and forth. She and her mother with their tennis rackets and the furry green balls that they hammered back and forth until one of them called “Enough!” One time they played until they could barely walk back to the house and were laughing and bumping into each other as they scarfed down leftovers and then just lay on the soft carpet by the big fireplace. They left the television off and for two hours talked about things. About Sarah’s friends. About her mother’s clients. About life. Things like that didn’t happen too often back then. But Sarah now had to admit one thing: If she had to live in a small cabin with someone’s mother, hers wasn’t all