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I've always wanted a dog.

After I was polite, I'd ask her questions. That's how you get to know people, you ask them things. Just like she was asking me—what's your name, where do you live—those kinds of things.

What I really want to ask her is why she was crying the other day. But if I asked her that, maybe she'd think I was spying on her. I guess I was, but I didn't mean to. Anyway, I just want to know why. Maybe I could help her feel better about whatever made her cry.

I know how it feels to cry when you're all by yourself and there's no one to give you a hug.

I feel the comb slide through my hair—down one side, down the back, and then down the other side. It slips through easily. I reach my hand to my hair—it's smooth.

"Here." Sierra hands me the comb. "Want to comb it yourself?"

I take the comb and run it through my hair. No tangles. None. I look over my shoulder at Sierra and smile. If only I could thank her. As I hand the comb back to her, I realize it's a little darker inside the tree now. I look up to the opening and see that the sun is no longer shining in through the hole. I feel my stomach knot. What time is it? How long have I been here?

I stand, turn, and look down at Sierra. I have to go. I have to go now.

I look at the opening of the tree and back at Sierra. I start to step around her but she reaches out and puts her hand on my leg.

"Do you . . . Do you need to go?"

She can tell. She knows. I nod and look again at the opening in the tree.

Sierra stands, brushes dirt off the back of her pants, and bends to pick up her backpack. We both bend and crawl out of the tree.

I start to walk away, to head back to the cabin. My heart is beating so hard in my chest it hurts. My palms are all sweaty. I have to get back.

"Hey, wait."

I turn back and look at Sierra. The lump in my throat feels like it will choke me. I wish . . . I wish . . . But no, I have to go.

"Can . . . I . . . Can I walk you home? Or . . ."

I shake my head hard.
No!

"Oh, okay . . ." She looks around likes she's not sure what to do. Her forehead creases and her eyes squint when she looks back at me. "Will you be okay?"

I nod.

"Will I see you again?"

Oh, I hope so.
Oh, please let me see her again.
I nod and point to the tree.

"We can meet here?"

I nod.
Yes, please come back here.

"Okay."

I turn and start walking away. But then I stop and look back at Sierra and Van . . . and I can't help it. I turn around and run back to them. I bend down and put my arms around Van's neck and give him a tight hug. I stand straight and look at Sierra. I take a step toward her, then stop. Should I . . . ? Then, I just do it.

I just wrap my arms around her waist and hug her tight. Even tighter than I hugged Van.

Then I turn and run. I run until I know she can't see me anymore.

By the time I get back to the cabin, it's late. As I walked the rest of the way back, all I could think about was her. But when I crossed the stream and got closer to the cabin, my stomach cramped and I wondered if he was there. But by the time I could see the cabin, I saw his truck was still gone and I relaxed.

Sierra told me when she left that she'd come again, but not tomorrow because she has to work. I hope she doesn't change her mind or forget.

I sit on my mattress and think about all the things she told me. She said she named her dog after a famous painter, Van Go, I think. Kind of a funny name. She told me about her favorite painting—it's called
Starry Night Over the Rind.
She said she loves the way the lights reflect on the river. It sounds nice. Anyway, she just calls her dog Van for short.

I wish I could talk to her.

I could write to her! I scramble off my mattress and run to his room. I go to the table by his bed and look through the things piled there—some magazines, papers, a book of matches, a candy bar wrapper, a few pennies. Where's the pen? I look on the floor, but nothing. Finally I see it on the floor behind the table. It must have rolled off after I used it earlier. As far as I know, it's the only pen in the cabin. I grab it and go to the kitchen and tear another piece off the bag—a piece a little smaller than a piece of binder paper. Then I refold the bag and put it back.

I stand at the counter for a long time thinking of what to say: Dear Sierra . . . But then I remember that it's not polite to call adults by their first name.

In my best handwriting, I begin my note:

Dear Miss Sierra . . .

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sierra

Stop . . ."

Getting the word from my mind to my mouth takes Herculean effort. I swat aimlessly at whatever's tickling my face. "Stop. I mean it." Still, something tickles just to the left of my nose. There's something else too—something warm and damp—like someone breathing in my face. "Stop it! Go away!" I finally open one leaden eyelid and—

"Van! Off! What are you doing?!" I shove him from the bed to the floor and then crash back against my pillow.

Then I remember. Ugh. I roll to the side of the bed and hang over the edge. Nose to muzzle with my dog, I apologize. "Sorry, guy, I'm used to sleeping alone. Come on, don't look so hurt. You're right, I invited you. Come on, come back up." I pat the bed and, with that, ninety pounds of fur leaps from the floor, over me, and settles—dare I say it?—onto
his
side of the bed. I scratch his neck. "You can sleep up here as long as you don't tell Ruby. Deal?" His tail wags against my leg.

The weight and warmth of him last night chased the chill from my body and heart—a chill that set in after I left . . . what's her name? Good grief, I don't even know her name, but I can't get her off my mind. After restless hours trying to push thoughts of her aside, I finally got out of bed, shuffled to the kitchen, opened Van's crate, and told him he could sleep with me.

In less than a week, I've completely lost my mind. I was content with my life. It worked. No surprises. I had everything under control. Now I have a dog on my bed and a child in my head—my life—whatever. How did this happen?

I throw the covers back, swing my feet to the floor, and set myself straight: "It's time to get a grip, Sierra!"

"Van, down. Outside." As though we have all the time in the world, Van stretches, eases himself off the bed, and saunters toward the kitchen. I let him out and set the teapot to boil. While I wait, I go to my studio and grab my calendar off my "desk"—two sawhorses and a piece of plywood.

At 11:00 a.m. I'm scheduled to meet with the couple from Sausalito to discuss their color palette. We agreed to meet at a gallery in Half Moon Bay, a half-way point. The couple—Robert and his young wife, Lindy—wanted to meet at my "studio." Instead, I called the gallery owner, who has a few of my pieces on display, and asked if we could use his office for an hour. He was happy to oblige "his favorite artist." Right.

I usually love the jaunt along Highway 1 to Half Moon Bay. The coastal route, if it isn't socked in with fog, is postcard perfect. But this morning I find myself dreading the time alone—time to think.

I pick up the phone and dial Ruby.

"Morning, Sunshine, want to have lunch in Half Moon Bay today? Maybe do a little shopping? Ruby? Are you there?"

"Sierra? It's . . . It's 5:45 a.m."

"Oh, uh, yeah—I forgot to look at the clock. Sorry. Well anyway, do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Want to have lunch in Half Moon Bay today?"

"No."

"No? Why not?"

"Hugo's coming."

"Hugo? Who's Hugo?"

"Hugo of the warped soul. Remember? He's sitting for me today. I'm working. It's a work day, you know?"

"Oh," I sigh. "Yeah, I know. I'm working too. I'm meeting clients—I thought maybe you'd like to join me."

"Sorry."

"You don't sound sorry."

"I'm asleep!"

"Right. I'll talk to you later."

"Sierra . . ."

"What?"

"Your water's boiling."

With that, the line goes dead. And Ruby goes back to sleep, I assume. I go to the kitchen, turn off the screeching teapot, reach for a mug, fill a diffuser with loose leaves, and . . . the phone rings.

"Hello—"

"Let me get this straight. Spur of the moment, on a whim, you want me to go with you to Half Moon Bay and have lunch? Spontaneously, drop of the hat . . . just do lunch?"

With the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, I reach for the teapot and fill my cup. "Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

"You're not spontaneous. You don't have a spontaneous bone in your body. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Did you change your mind? Do you want to come?"

"No."

"Fine. But I am spontaneous. What about breakfast? Our breakfasts are always spontaneous."

"That's different. It's planned spontaneity. We do it every week. We never just pick up and do lunch . . . and shopping . . . or anything different. You always have to plan it."

"So, let's try it. C'mon."

"No."

For the second time in five minutes, Ruby hangs up on me.

Heading north on Highway 1 out of Santa Cruz, much of the coastline is made up of agricultural land. Verdant rows roll toward the sea and an occasional farmer can be seen sitting atop a tractor surveying his crop. I think of my daddy and how much he'd love to farm land that dropped off into the Pacific—even on a gray and colorless day like today.

My daddy. What would he have done if he'd found . . . What is her name? If he'd found a little girl alone in the forest? I know exactly what he'd have done. He'd have picked her up, lifted her up onto his shoulders, and scoured the area for miles around until he figured out where she belonged. He certainly wouldn't have left her alone, without food, or shoes, or . . .

Guilt slices my conscience again. I shouldn't have just let her leave.

Before I left, I did ask if I could walk her home. Her eyes seemed to darken and she backed away from me. She shook her head so hard.

And then it was back. The fear I'd seen that first day. Those were the eyes I'd seen staring at me from inside the tree.

I moved toward her, careful not to startle her. "Will you be okay?"

A slower nod—up and down.

But honestly I knew better. She wasn't, isn't, and won't be okay. Something is terribly wrong.

These are the thoughts I wanted to avoid today.

"You're getting a grip, Sierra, remember?" The words ring hollow inside the Jeep. I turn on the radio and turn up the volume. Perfect.

I arrive at the gallery with the beat of the music reverberating through my mind. "Hey, Alec. How's business?"

Alec, donning his signature black silk tee, feigns delight, and kisses each of my cheeks. "Sierra, enchanting as always. Because of you, business is lovely. I just sold
Scattered
—that fall montage of yours. Buyers came in last night. Tried to talk me down, of course, but I wouldn't budge. I told them it will be worth three times that amount by spring. So I have a juicy check for you this morning."

"Great! And Alec, I trust you'll enjoy your juicy commission?"

"You know I will."

Alec drapes his arm across my shoulders as we walk to the back of the gallery. "Listen, cupcake, now that you'll have all that lovely money in your bank account, don't you think it's time for a little shopping trip?" He steps back and gives me the once-over. "Really, Sierra. Is this the best you could do?"

"Ah . . . saved by the clients," I whisper over my shoulder as I make my way back to the front of the gallery. "Robert, Lindy, nice to see you."

As I reach to shake Robert's hand, I notice a child tagging along behind Lindy—she can't be more than five or six.

"Sierra, good to see you again. Hope you don't mind but we brought Annie with us—the nanny's home with the flu. You know how that goes." Robert shrugs his shoulders.

"Annie?"
Annie!

"Yes, our daughter. Haven't you met? Oh, of course not, she wasn't with us the night of the showing. Annie, come here, say hello to Sierra. Sierra's an artist."

The child leans into Lindy and gives me a shy smile. "I'm an artist too. See . . ." Pudgy fingers fumble with a coloring book she's brought with her. She finds what she's looking for and then holds it up for me to see—a unicorn colored in every shade of the rainbow.

I just stare.

After an awkward moment, Lindy waves a perfectly manicured hand in front of my face. "Hello, Sierra, is there a problem?"

"Uh . . . no. No." I bend slightly and smile. "Nice unicorn."

The meeting is a blur. I leave with paint samples and fabric swatches and pictures of an ultracontemporary home overlooking the bay that I decline an invitation to see in person. Beyond that, I have no idea what was discussed or agreed to. Instead, I feel as though someone's knocked the wind out of me.

Of course, I've encountered children over the years. I see them on the beach, in the grocery store. I'm aware that there are other little girls out there named Annie. But I've protected myself. They have nothing to do with me. Even as recently as last week, my heart might have skipped a beat at the introduction of Robert and Lindy's Annie, but the discomfort would have passed since my memories were safely tucked away, only to be taken out once each year.

But now . . . Everything is different.

Why?

"Why?"
I shout my question into the wind. "Why? What do You want from me?"

The crashing surf and the cry of gulls overhead are the only response.

I left the gallery determined I'd drive straight home. But my resolve—and any remaining sense of control—shattered when I saw the turnoff marked
Bonny Doon.
I veered to the shoulder of the road, parked, and made my way to the beach.

Now I turn and look at the mountains behind me. There, just a few miles above the beach where I stand, is a child who . . .

Questions swirl in the wind around me,
What if it were Annie? What's the truth, Shannon? What's true?

The truth is that she's a child who . . . needs me. Me.

All my fears—all the pain of the last twelve years—bubble to the surface. I can't do this. Then comes another truth: I can't do this alone.