Dead & Gone (DARAGON)

You ain't nothing but a hound dog '

I've never really been one of those
people who remembers her dreams. I've
literally tried everything—journals, tape
recorders, getting the girls to tell me if I
ever talked in my sleep—but zilch, nada,
nothing. With the creepy exception of my
recurring motorcycle nightmare, nothing
ever really seemed to stick.

But not this time.

For some strange reason, on this
particular night, something told me this
was a dream I was going to remember.
And when I finally came to the following
morning, still curled up in Patrick's lap,
guess what?

It was.

I dreamed about Hamloaf.

Or, specifically, I dreamed about the
time Hamloaf ate my favorite stuffed
animal—a bunny I had named Mrs. Fluff.
I'd screamed my head off when I had
climbed into bed that night to find my
beloved Mrs. Fluff missing from her
usual spot under the covers. Her fuzzy
pink nose. Her soft pink ears. The
floppiest ever.

Vanished, without a trace.

At first, Mom and Dad said I must have
left her somewhere. Over at Sadie's
house. In the laundry room. Under my
bed. I denied all their accusations.
Because I knew the truth. Mrs. Fluff
wasn't missing . . . Mrs. Fluff had been
kidnapped.

Chaos morphed into pandemonium when
Dad noticed a strange trail of slobbery
cotton leading from the upstairs hallway,
down the stairs, into the living room, and
right out of Hamloaf's doggy door. Yes.
It's true. The dog ate my bunny. He ate
her pink nose, worn from where I'd
kissed it a thousand times. He ate her
floppy pink ears. He even ate her
beautiful blue glass eyes. (One of which
showed up a few days later, it should be
noted, a little less blue and a little less
shiny.)

"Everything," I whispered, still only
half-awake. "I remember everything."

I remembered Mrs. Fluff. I remembered
Hamloaf's swollen belly as he lay
stretched in the starlight, all passed out
and full of bunny. I remembered being
angrier than I'd ever been in my young,
short life, and the remorseful look in his
sweet, brown, hound-doggy eyes when
he saw me crying. I remembered the way
he'd pressed his soft, black, whiskery
nose to my face to say he was sorry.

And then, for some reason, I
remembered the way Mom had held me
in her arms that night, telling me that
Hamloaf was only a puppy. And that he
hadn't meant it. I remembered the smell
of her hair and the warmth of her terry
cloth robe. I remembered the way she'd
made me feel better in that special Mom-
Way nobody else on earth could ever do.But this was more than memory. This
was longing. Unexpected, overwhelming
longing. This was holding hands when I
was little, and the two of us being silly
in our pajamas on Saturday mornings.
This was us hurting each other because
we could and being best friends and
growing apart and the anger and
resentment over what neither of us had
fought hard enough to hold on to because
—in the end—kids have to grow up
someday. These were feelings I had
locked away and buried in a time
capsule, sealed off in a safe, secret
place deep inside where nobody would
ever find it. A place that somehow, over
time, I had forgotten.

I missed my family. I missed my mom.

I opened my eyes, swollen from crying,
and looked up at Patrick.

"Angel?" he said.

"I want to go home."

"You want to talk about why?"

I shook my head. Stretched and got to my
feet. Something felt hard and heavy in
my chest, like a block of concrete had
settled in there while I was sleeping. But
something else had settled in there too.
A plan, which I was looking forward to
putting into action.