Eleven: Chapters 15–30

There was no sign of Nunu anywhere.
He called out tentatively. "Nunu?”

Alex pushed on, searching the bathrooms and double-checking the playground. He ran across the huge, grassy expanse of the soccer field.

Alex forged his way along a wild and overgrown creek bed, criss-crossing the muddy banks of the stream until it abruptly disappeared through a metal grate into a slime-slick culvert running under a four-lane road that bridged the far edge of the park.

Alex forged his way along a wild and overgrown creek bed, criss-crossing the muddy banks of the stream until it abruptly disappeared through a metal grate into a slime-slick culvert running under a four-lane road that bridged the far edge of the park.

Alex tried the grate: it was welded shut.

Alex rolled his eyes, then grinned at his dog, who was scratching intently behind one ear, like nothing had happened.

He started to speak. At first, all that came out was a hoarse croak, and then he was choking, coughing, hacking the gritty gray dust out of his throat and lungs.

The dog laid his head on Alex’s shoulder, blood seeping from behind his ear and matting his fur.

Alex stayed right by Rex’s side through the whole exam, holding him while the vet irrigated the wound and stroking his paw when the doctor injected the cut with anesthetic.

Alex stayed right by Rex’s side through the whole exam, holding him while the vet irrigated the wound and stroking his paw when the doctor injected the cut with anesthetic.

They were inside a makeshift medical tent that had been set up just beyond the disaster zone.

A voice on the cop’s radio cut through the static. The cop paused to listen, then ran back to the street and disappeared around a corner, headed south.

His hands began to tremble, and his legs started to quiver.

He sat down heavily on the curb. At first, he thought that it was muscle fatigue from carrying all those injured people.

Up ahead, policemen on horses clip-clopped across the bridge, eyeing every car that passed, checking the terrain below.

He just watched as the whirlwind of paper swirled around their heads.

When he left home this morning, he was wearing a white shirt and dark pants and shoes. Now, he was coated top to bottom with ash and soot; his hair, his face—even his eyelashes were coated in a fine gray powder.

He’d probably seen it a thousand times before. Today, it made him shudder.

Behind them came dozens more, traipsing off the dock. Off the ferry boat from Manhattan.

He waited until one of them passed close by, a man with only one shoe, walking gingerly on the ball of his bare foot.

Her constant barrage of questions usually annoyed him. She could be such a pest.

He turned around to find a filthy gray bird flapping around on the pavement at his feet. It was struggling, unable to fly, its body and wings coated with grime.

The Man in the White Shirt bent down with the bottle and poured water over the bird’s body. The bird turned strangely calm, giving in, standing still as the dust ran off its feathers in dirty rivulets.

“But,” continued Mr. Patel, “the one dollar special comes with a one dollar rebate. Paid in advance. So, here you go. Your one dollar rebate.”

The man turned to the waiting room and saw what he’d missed before: there were no gurneys rolling through to the ER, no sick and wounded in pain.

Alex’s misdeeds flipped through his head like a slideshow as he thought about everything he’d done wrong that day: how he’d broken his promise to go straight home; how he’d disobeyed his parents and picked up a dog; how he’d been messing around in the park and lost track of Nunu; how he’d lied to his mother.

He waved at Radar to follow, his voice gruff.

Desperate, he straddled the dog’s back, slid his hands under his belly, and scooped him into his arms so fast that he took Radar by surprise.

The dog was suddenly airborne, held aloft, paws sticking out.

A surly old man stood above him, scowling down.