After that she floated away, back to Chase climbing high into Cousin Petey’s sycamore tree, back to her father waving to her from his truck, back to a strange, lush land where people had wings and dogs walked upright, reciting poetry. For days she traveled through dazzling meadows with a poetry-quoting Airedale, then, when they came to a river that flowed like honey, the dog turned to her, saying, Little Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids, all in a row! Grinning at her, the Airedale vanished. She jumped, surprised by his disappearance. She found herself not in a magical land with talking dogs, but back in a shabby motel room. She sat up in the bed, blinking, still looking for the dog and the meadow and the lapping river, but she saw only a gray linoleum floor, a boarded-up window, an ancient television crowned with a rabbit-ear antenna. For a moment she sat there, wondering where the dog had gone; then the edges of reality sharpened.
