Into the Firestorm by Deborah Hopkinson Page A

taking over the sofa. But he’s a creature of habit. He’d probably just plop down on top of you. I’m not sure how well you’d sleep with a sixty-pound dog on your chest, panting into your face at all hours.”
    Tonight, with Mr. Pat gone, Nick expected Shakespeare to go straight to his place on the sofa again. Instead, as Nick stretched out on his blankets, the dog stood over him, legs apart, breathing hard. His chocolate eyes gazed into Nick’s. He whined low in his throat.
    “What’s wrong? Do you miss Mr. Pat already?” Nick scratched the dog’s head and pulled gently on one ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”
    Nick stared up at the ceiling.
    “I’m here, Gran,” he whispered out loud. “Safe. Safe in San Francisco. I even have a job and a place to stay, for now, anyway. Mr. Pat might keep me on if I take good care of Shakespeare and his treasures while he’s away. So you don’t need to worry about me.”
    Nick frowned. Well, it really was too soon to tell what would happen with Mr. Pat Patterson. He was such an unusual sort of person. He seemed to streak through each day like the stars Nick and Gran had watched flash through the dark August sky—moving fast, almost too quick to see.
    “I wonder if Mr. Pat took me on only because it was convenient. After all, I showed up at just the right time. He needed to go away and didn’t want to be bothered to take you with him,” Nick said, sitting up on the bedroll and addressing Shake. “Maybe, come Thursday, he’ll decide to send me on my way.”
    Shakespeare didn’t seem to be listening. He whined, settled himself to the floor with a heavy sigh, and then after a minute got up again. The dog’s nails clicked as he walked across to the stairs. He stood for a minute, listening, then trotted back to Nick.
    “Settle down, boy. You’re making me nervous. I’m trying to sort things out,” Nick told him. He kept one hand on the dog’s head, scratching idly.
    It did seem to be a good sign that Mr. Pat was taking a chance on him. After all, not everyone would let a strange boy keep watch, even if the office and the shop were locked up tightly. And he had bought Nick those clothes.
    Nick yawned. “What do
you
think, Shakespeare? Will Mr. Pat keep me on?”
    Shake tilted his head, his ears pricking up at attention. He wagged his tail, which Nick decided was a good sign.
    “Well, at least I know
you
like me, Shake. And I sure would love to learn this business. Did you see those folks who came in today to buy newspapers and magazines?” Nick went on, yawning again. “Mr. Pat said they were poets, writers, and newspaper reporters. It would be something to get to know people like that.”
    As he thought about the shop upstairs, Nick’s sleepiness seemed to evaporate. He suddenly felt as jumpy as Shakespeare.
    What if someone tried to break in? Would Nick be able to hear noises from down here in the basement? Would Shakespeare?
    Nick peered into the darkness. Shakespeare had finally hopped up to his usual place on the sofa. He seemed asleep, but when he noticed Nick, he gave a few gentle wags of his tail.
    Then, unexpectedly, he jumped off the sofa and paced around the room again, making the same whining sound deep in his throat. Finally he curled up on the floor next to Nick and put his head on his paws.
    “That’s it, boy,” Nick said, throwing his arm around the dog. “Everything’s going to be all right. Let’s go to sleep now.”
             
    CRACK
    BOOM
    Nick woke suddenly, with no idea where he was.
    The light was dim, but it was morning. Early morning. Half asleep, Nick felt confused. His first thoughts flew to Gran. Where was she? Had he missed the bell calling Mr. Hank’s workers to the fields?
    Then, more awake, Nick realized where he was. Still, something
was
wrong. A deep, horrible rumbling. A high-pitched whine. That, at least, made sense. Shakespeare! Yes, he was in Mr. Pat’s basement. The dog must need to go