direction the noise is coming from. We’re in a warren of residential streets, with paths and gates and gardens. He could be anywhere.
“There.” Matt points. “No, wait. There. Harold. HAROLD!”
The barking is getting louder, and now it’s clearer where it’s coming from. I start running along the road toward the sound, calling out at top volume till my lungs are burning.
“Harold? HAROLD!”
I reach another corner and skitter to a halt, breathing hard, still confused. The barking seems to be in a different place now. Where the hell is he? Is he in someone’s garden?
“He’s coming toward us,” says Matt, arriving at my side. “Listen.”
Sure enough, the barking is really loud now. He must be nearby, he must be…
“Is he behind us?” I say in confusion, and I turn around to look. And that’s when I hear it. A screech of tires. An unearthly howl.
Harold.
No. Harold.
“Fuck,” Matt mutters, breaking into a sprint. I match him, pace for pace, my brain hollow with dread, and as we round the next corner, we see him lying on the road. He’s only just visible in the glow from a streetlamp, but I can already see the pool of blood.
I can’t— I can’t even—
I move faster than I ever have in my life, but still Matt gets there first and cradles Harold on his lap, his own face white.
Harold’s breathing is hoarse. There’s blood everywhere. There’s mangled fur…I can see bone…Oh, Harold, Harold, my world…I crash down onto the road beside Matt, who tenderly transfers Harold’s head onto my lap and gets out his phone.
“Fucking hit-and-run,” he says, his voice taut as he dials. “Monsters.”
Harold gives a little whine, and blood seeps from his mouth. I look at Matt and he looks at me. And it’s all there. We don’t have to say anything. It’s all there.
Twenty-Seven
Six months later
Nihal wants to build Harold a new robotic leg. I keep telling him Harold doesn’t need a new robotic leg. He already has a state-of-the-art prosthetic leg, which works really well. But every time Nihal sees Harold, he surveys the prosthetic leg and then his eyes go all pensive, and I know he wants to turn Harold into the bionic dog.
Me, I’m just grateful. I still wake up every morning and remember in a sickening rush and tremble with the dread of what could have been.
After we realized Harold was going to live (I nearly fainted with relief—not my finest hour), my biggest worry was that his spirit wouldn’t survive. That the weeks of treatment and surgery and rehab he needed would somehow crush him. But I should have realized. This is Harold.
He practically swaggers along. He’s all “Get me, with my cool metal leg.” The veterinary physio said she’d never met a dog with such confidence. Then she got a puzzled look in her eye and added that he almost seemed to lead the sessions. At which Matt and I glanced at each other and Matt said, “Yup, that figures.” Then he added, “Wait till he becomes famous. He’s going to be unbearable.”
It was a month after the accident that Felicity called to tell me that a publisher called Sasha wanted to turn my story of Harold into a book. A real book!
Sasha came to lunch and met Harold and I told her the story of the accident. (It was a bit of a therapy session in the end.) And then I said, surely I should put the whole incident into the book? Because this was part of who Harold was now?
Whereupon Sasha became thoughtful and said maybe leave that story for the sequel. And the next thing was, Felicity phoned me up and said the publishers had changed their mind: They now wanted two books! Two books about Harold! It’s unbelievable. The whole thing’s unbelievable. They offered me this incredible sum of money and I replied, “Wow, thank you!” before Felicity hastily stepped in and said my reply did not imply acceptance of the offer. And then she somehow got them to give me even more. I still don’t know how. So I’ve been able to quit my job writing leaflets. I’m totally focused on writing another Harold book. (Except I do still want to get into aromatherapy; that’s definitely going to be my sideline.)
Since then, Matt and I have worked out an arrangement where I sleep at his place—in fact, I live at his place, really—but work at my flat. That way, I still have my own office. We might buy a