The Survivors by Will Weaver Page B

He’s so sad looking.”
    â€œHe’s a wild dog. He could be dangerous.”
    â€œMaybe we could tame him. Make him a watchdog,” Artie says.
    â€œI’m the watchdog,” Miles says.

CHAPTER NINE
SARAH
    FRIDAY AFTER SCHOOL, SARAH DOES not take the bus home. She has been invited over to Mackenzie’s house to spend the night. Sarah was not wild about the whole idea, but staying in a house with actual plumbing helped her decide.
    First, however, she has to wait until Mackenzie is done with after-school tennis practice. She watches while the girls’ team volleys back and forth. Very few of them have any kind of follow-through on their shots, and the coach, an older woman teacher perched on a stool, either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
    â€œCome on, Sarah, want to hit a few?” Mackenzie teases.
    â€œNo thanks, it’s not really my game,” Sarah calls back.
    â€œCome on, Sarah,” Rachel adds, clearly dying to take a breather.
    â€œWhy not?” Mackenzie says. “There’s an extra racket in the bag.”
    Sarah shrugs. “I’m not really dressed right.” She has on her jeans.
    â€œJust a couple of volleys,” Mackenzie says.
    Sarah stretches briefly, then picks up the racket. She spins it in her hands, taps its head on concrete to test its heft, then plucks at the nylon mesh to test its tension.
    â€œOkay, here goes nothing,” Sarah says. Out of habit from playing with Nat and Miles on their home court, she flips a dead ball off the concrete, then tosses it up. Her serve feels good—she has a momentary sensation of being home. Mackenzie strokes the ball back to her. Sarah ranges left and returns the volley. She remembers to be clumsy—at least in her footwork—but her arm does not obey. With a smooth, level sweep, she returns the ball.
    â€œHey, that was nice!” Rachel calls. She stops to stare.
    Mackenzie returns the ball, harder this time.
    Sarah goes right and turns over a nice forearm stroke that Mackenzie just barely manages to return. It’s an easy play for Sarah; she could nail it in the corner where Mackenzie would never reach it, but she pretends to stumble and draws up short.
    â€œSorry!” she calls to Mackenzie.
    â€œHey, that’s all right. I’ve been playing for years,” Mackenzie says.
    They do a few more volleys, during which Sarah makes sure to miss a few more shots. “That’s it for me,” Sarah calls, and walks off the court. As she returns the racket to a big gym bag, the tennis coach walks over.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she says. She is not smiling.
    â€œUh, putting away the racket?”
    â€œNo. Out there.” The coach nods toward the court.
    â€œSorry! I know I’m not on the team, but they asked me to volley.”
    â€œNot that. I mean, pretending that you can’t play.”
    Sarah is silent.
    The teacher allows a faint smile and takes off her sunglasses. She has steely blue eyes that penetrate Sarah’s gaze. “You play, don’t you?”
    Sarah shrugs. “A little.”
    â€œSo why not come out for the team?”
    â€œSorry, can’t. I have to go home after school.”
    â€œWhat’s your name, by the way?”
    â€œSarah. Sarah Newell.”
    â€œAnd you’re a transfer student, right?”
    The coach is trying, but Sarah feels trapped. Vulnerable. She’s starting to think like Miles. She nods.
    â€œSo where did you move from?”
    â€œPark Rapids area. I’m on open enrollment.”
    â€œGreat,” the coach says. “Good to have you here. I know a tennis player when I see one.”
    Sarah glances away. Mackenzie is watching them even as she strokes and volleys.
    â€œMaybe you and I can hit some balls someday—by ourselves, I mean,” the coach says. “Just for fun.”
    â€œSure. Okay.” Anything to end this conversation.
    â€œSo, don’t be a