How to Look for a Lost Dog by Ann M. Martin Page A

gently, as if it might stop soon. The leaves on the trees are fluttering a little, but the wind is not roaring like it was during the night.
    In our yard two trees have fallen, the birch and the elm. The birch tree came up by its roots. The tips of its branches are resting on the porch roof. The elm tree snapped just above the ground. It fell in the other direction, across the road, and took the power lines with it. Also, one of our oak trees split down the middle, and the top part snapped off another. There are branches and leaves everywhere I look.
    I peer sideways over to the driveway, which is covered with branches and leaves like everything else, and follow it to the road.
    I draw my breath in tight. I realize that I can see the stream that runs alongside Hud. This is the first time I’ve been able to see the water from so far away. As I mentioned in “Chapter 15: Where We Live”, there has never been more than 10.5 inches of water in the stream. But now the water is so deep that it’s flowed over its banks and flooded both the road and the lower part of our yard. It’s rushing along fast and hard and swollen like a river, and it couldn’t fit under our bridge, so it roared over it. The bottom of our drive has washed away. Sturdy pieces of timber are breaking apart and hurtling down Hud.
    We are stuck on our property. Even after the water recedes, the stream will still be there, with no driveway bridging it. I turn around, wondering whether it’s okay to wake my father. I want to ask him about the bridge and hear (here) his thoughts on being stranded.
    I’m about to knock on his door when I realize that I haven’t seen (scene) Rain. She’s not in the kitchen or the living room. I go back to my room and look under my bed. Sometimes Rain hides there if she gets scared.
    No Rain.
    I check the bathroom.
    No Rain.
    I look in the kitchen and living room once more.
    â€œRain?” I call. “Rain?”
    Nothing.
    I call louder. “ Rain? ”
    Suddenly the door to my father’s room bursts open.
    â€œRose, quit yelling. I let Rain outside. She had to pee.”
    â€œYou let her outside? When?”
    â€œI don’t know. A while ago.”
    â€œDid you let her back in?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you?”
    â€œBecause it was early . I went back to sleep. She’s probably on the porch.”
    I forget about the trees and the water and the driveway and being stranded. I fling open the front door.
    The porch is wet. Everything is dripping, and the couch is soaked.
    Rain is not there. I call her name again. Then I step onto the porch in my bare feet. I stand at the top of the steps and call, “Rain! Rain! Rain! Rain!” into the grey morning.
    The only sound I hear is dripping.
    I begin to breathe very fast.
    I think this is a sign of panic.
    â€œTwo, three, five, seven, eleven,” I say. “Two, three, five, seven, eleven.”

20
Why I Get Mad at My Father
    I sit in a chair at the kitchen table.
    Something has happened to Rain.
    My father let her outside and she didn’t come back.
    This is not like her.
    She may be lost.
    I stand at the window again and gaze out at the rushing water, at the fallen trees, at the bottom of our yard that now looks like a pond.
    â€œFind her?”
    I jump. I turn around to see my father. He’s standing in the doorway to his bedroom wearing an undershirt and boxer shorts.
    â€œWhat time did you let her out?” I ask.
    â€œDoes that mean you didn’t find her?”
    â€œShe doesn’t come when I call.”
    â€œWhy can’t you just answer me? Say, ‘No, I didn’t find her’.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t find her. What time did you let her out?”
    My father scratches his neck and sits at the kitchen table. “Power’s out,” he says. “Phone too?”
    â€œI have to answer your questions, but you don’t have to answer