No Passengers Beyond This Point(50)

“We can’t leave the dog,” Mouse says, stubbornly.

We have to go back, figure out a way to avoid Francine and Manny, persuade a dog to come with us, and find India and the black box all in five hours and nineteen minutes. How is this possible?

“Remember the time Henry ran away, Mouse? Remember how we got her back?” I ask.

“She followed you.”

“She was running toward TO Boulevard and I ran the other direction. She turned around and began chasing after me, remember?”

“You think the blue-eyed dog will follow us?”

I nod.

“What if Francine locks her in?”

I hadn’t thought of that. “She won’t do that, Mouse,” I lie.

“You promise, Finn?” she whispers hopefully. “Pinkie swear?”

I don’t answer this.

Mouse nods as if no answer is her answer. She takes out her clock and looks at it. For the first time, she seems to really understand what is at stake here.

“What about you, Finn? You won’t leave me, will you?” Her voice squeaks.

“I won’t leave you, Mouse.” I put my hand on her messy hair head. “That I can promise. Now c’mon.” I try to make my voice more upbeat than I feel. “We can do this.”

The farther we move into the tunnel, the closer the weather outside sounds. It’s raining out there, maybe hailing too, and the wind is howling.

What is my plan B? How will we find the black box without the acute hearing of a dog? Somebody in Falling Bird must know where it is, but who?

A thunderous boom crashes overhead. The sound reverberates through my legs as the ceiling collapses, spilling soil down all around me.

Dirt pours down my chest. Weighs down my head. Goes up my nose, burns my eyes. Dirt in my mouth, in my throat.

Everything is dirt. Dirt everywhere.

Air. I need air.

I cough, try to breathe.

The shale is loose. Dark all around. Can’t grasp, can’t claw. I fight, dig my way out, but which way is out?

Need air.

I shove my hand up as far as it will go. One finger wiggles free. Shove, push through, now my head. Get my head up there.

I breathe great gasps of air.

Air is the best thing ever. Better than chocolate, better than basketball.

I cough the dirt out of my mouth, my nose, my throat, and then it hits me . . . Mouse? Where’s Mouse? The avalanche filled the tunnel like water pouring into a glass. I can’t see her anywhere.

I dig hard one way and hard the other.

Where have I searched already? Where do I need to look?

“Mouse! Mouse!” My voice is hoarse from dust and from screaming. And then suddenly I hear a whimper.

I stand stock-still to locate the sound. Left. It’s coming from my left. I dig left crazy hard.

The sound is clearer now. A muffled whine, a tan paw. The blue-eyed dog is covered in dirt, her tail pinioned by a boulder the size of a basketball. I shove the boulder with my hands, heave my shoulder into it. The dog yelps as it rolls off her tail.

“Mouse!” I tell her. “Find Mouse!”

The dog begins digging one way, while I dig the other. She is a digging machine, this dog.

“Mouse!” I call, shale sifting through my fingers, dumping a fresh avalanche on my head.

And then from down the tunnel I hear a low howl and Mouse’s whispered voice. “Dog. You’re here.”

It takes me a while to make my way through the piles of dirt, shale, rocks, and sand, but when I get to Mouse, the blue-eyed dog has her nose up close to Mouse’s grimy face, allowing herself to be petted at last.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

Mouse nods, tears making clean pink lines through the grime on her cheeks. “Finn,” she says. “The dog is here.”

I gulp the air, my insides rising up, filling my chest.

“You saved Mouse,” I tell the blue-eyed dog, running my fingers over her thick dirty coat.

“Know what I just figured out, Finn?” Mouse asks.

“What?” I scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“Dog is god backward,” she says.

“We need to give her a name,” I say.

Mouse puts her index finger to her chin, her head steady, her eyes looking up. “Boom,” she answers. “After the sound that brought us together.”

“All it took was an avalanche,” I say.

Boom wags her tail.





CHAPTER 29

WELCOMER STATION

I hang back, wanting to look in Bing’s wallet, but Mary Carol has a hawk eye—she doesn’t seem to mind that I’m lagging behind, but she won’t let me out of her sights either. How am I ever going to get time on my own? And then it hits me. It’s so obvious. Why didn’t I think of it before?

“Umm, Mary Carol, I need to use the bathroom.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Mary Carol mutters. “Closest facility is this way.” She changes course, walking back down the corridor in the direction we came and stopping at a sleek door. She presses her thumb against it and the door opens to a one-stall bathroom—no bigger than an airplane toilet—made entirely of metal.