to gaming. I poked around his room, which was
messier than my own, checked his digital reader for his latest downloads,
studied his corkboard — a new haiku about the view of sky seen from a window,
an old photo of Dad — and pulled a face at his old skateboard, which still hung
on the wall directly above his bed. It had been Mom and Dad’s gift to him on
his eleventh birthday.
“Why do you still keep that thing?” I said, irked. The skateboard
always reminded me of the time before. “What’s the point? The skate-parks are
closed, and no way would Mom allow you on the streets. You’ll never get to use
it again.”
“I can hope, can’t I? Things might change one day.” Robin glanced
out the window then wrote another line.
“ Phff . It’s like a leftover from the
time before,” I grumbled.
“A relic from ancient times … Maybe that’s why I keep it.”
Robin often said deep stuff like that.
As I plonked myself down next to him, my stomach growled a
welcome to the smell of baking chocolate drifting up from the kitchen.
“Mom’s making brownies.” I peered over his shoulder, read the
title of his poem. “An Unmarked Grave. What’s it about?”
“A little death.”
“Nice,” I said. “Very cheerful.”
Not particularly wanting to read further, I looked out the
window. Beyond the fence, Mr. Johnson, our neighbor, was lowering a bulky
bundle wrapped in what looked like white canvas into a large hole dug beside a
huge rhododendron bush heavy with yellow flowers.
“What the heck’s he doing?” Mr. Johnson was now dropping shovels
full of dirt into the hole. He was working quickly; it would soon be filled up.
“It looks like a grave, like he’s burying hidden treasure,” I joked.
“He is, in a way,” said Robin. He put down his pencil and looked
out the window, sighing deeply.
“What do you mean?”
“That was Maisy.”
Maisy was the Johnson’s dog, a friendly golden retriever with a
gray muzzle, a loud bark and a perpetually wagging tail. She was one of the
very few pets left in our neighborhood.
Because of the danger of contagion, most people who wanted pets
had switched to animals that couldn’t get outside, couldn’t get infected and
couldn’t bite — tropical fish, seahorses, or reptiles like pet lizards which
were resistant to the virus. Or, of course, robots. Robocats came complete with shed-free, easy-clean fur and purring function. RoboDogs barked and did tricks like sitting and
back-flipping. Chatty Parrots repeated whatever you said. Mom was always a
little freaked out by the neighbors’ real live dog, and the fact that it was
allowed out into their yard several times a day to run around and do its
business really worried her.
“But, but, how did it die?” I asked, confused and beginning to
get concerned. “And why are they burying it in the yard?”
“She was really old. And I guess they’re burying her there
because they want to keep her close in some way,” said Robin, rubbing at the
dent the pencil had left in his finger.
“Mom needs to see this.”
“ Jinxy , no, don’t —”
“Mom!” I called out loudly. “Come quick!”
Chapter 8
Overkill
“Jinx!” Robin thumped his notebook down hard on the seat
cushions. “What did you call her for? Now she’s going make a fat fuss. Their
poor old dog died, and they’re burying her. It’s not a federal offense!”
“Sorry to correct you, but I think it may well be,” I said, my
eyes still fixed on Mr. Johnson next door. He was patting down the earth on top
of the grave. “It’s definitely illegal. That dog could have died from the
plague — it could have infected them. Heck, it could have infected us!”
“You are so your mother’s daughter!” Robin’s look was scathing.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
Mom came running in, looking totally freaked out. She freaked out
easily.
I pointed out the window, ignoring the stink-eye Robin was giving
me, and explained what was
messier than my own, checked his digital reader for his latest downloads,
studied his corkboard — a new haiku about the view of sky seen from a window,
an old photo of Dad — and pulled a face at his old skateboard, which still hung
on the wall directly above his bed. It had been Mom and Dad’s gift to him on
his eleventh birthday.
“Why do you still keep that thing?” I said, irked. The skateboard
always reminded me of the time before. “What’s the point? The skate-parks are
closed, and no way would Mom allow you on the streets. You’ll never get to use
it again.”
“I can hope, can’t I? Things might change one day.” Robin glanced
out the window then wrote another line.
“ Phff . It’s like a leftover from the
time before,” I grumbled.
“A relic from ancient times … Maybe that’s why I keep it.”
Robin often said deep stuff like that.
As I plonked myself down next to him, my stomach growled a
welcome to the smell of baking chocolate drifting up from the kitchen.
“Mom’s making brownies.” I peered over his shoulder, read the
title of his poem. “An Unmarked Grave. What’s it about?”
“A little death.”
“Nice,” I said. “Very cheerful.”
Not particularly wanting to read further, I looked out the
window. Beyond the fence, Mr. Johnson, our neighbor, was lowering a bulky
bundle wrapped in what looked like white canvas into a large hole dug beside a
huge rhododendron bush heavy with yellow flowers.
“What the heck’s he doing?” Mr. Johnson was now dropping shovels
full of dirt into the hole. He was working quickly; it would soon be filled up.
“It looks like a grave, like he’s burying hidden treasure,” I joked.
“He is, in a way,” said Robin. He put down his pencil and looked
out the window, sighing deeply.
“What do you mean?”
“That was Maisy.”
Maisy was the Johnson’s dog, a friendly golden retriever with a
gray muzzle, a loud bark and a perpetually wagging tail. She was one of the
very few pets left in our neighborhood.
Because of the danger of contagion, most people who wanted pets
had switched to animals that couldn’t get outside, couldn’t get infected and
couldn’t bite — tropical fish, seahorses, or reptiles like pet lizards which
were resistant to the virus. Or, of course, robots. Robocats came complete with shed-free, easy-clean fur and purring function. RoboDogs barked and did tricks like sitting and
back-flipping. Chatty Parrots repeated whatever you said. Mom was always a
little freaked out by the neighbors’ real live dog, and the fact that it was
allowed out into their yard several times a day to run around and do its
business really worried her.
“But, but, how did it die?” I asked, confused and beginning to
get concerned. “And why are they burying it in the yard?”
“She was really old. And I guess they’re burying her there
because they want to keep her close in some way,” said Robin, rubbing at the
dent the pencil had left in his finger.
“Mom needs to see this.”
“ Jinxy , no, don’t —”
“Mom!” I called out loudly. “Come quick!”
Chapter 8
Overkill
“Jinx!” Robin thumped his notebook down hard on the seat
cushions. “What did you call her for? Now she’s going make a fat fuss. Their
poor old dog died, and they’re burying her. It’s not a federal offense!”
“Sorry to correct you, but I think it may well be,” I said, my
eyes still fixed on Mr. Johnson next door. He was patting down the earth on top
of the grave. “It’s definitely illegal. That dog could have died from the
plague — it could have infected them. Heck, it could have infected us!”
“You are so your mother’s daughter!” Robin’s look was scathing.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
Mom came running in, looking totally freaked out. She freaked out
easily.
I pointed out the window, ignoring the stink-eye Robin was giving
me, and explained what was
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