My mother’s little dog won’t go up to the field with me anymore, not past the shed with its fishing boat growing a green shadow, not even past the mountain ash with its berries shaking their flamboyant booties like the choir of a musical. Maybe it’s because of something that happened when she ran away, a mile, a long distance for a tiny dog. Then lost, then gathered into stranger’s arms and finally restored. But now she won’t go past the small lawns. She doesn’t like our voices raised. I’m sure she didn’t like my brother yelling, my mother trembling, my mother now tiny like the dog, living a dollhouse life. Remember, my brother lost everything. A fishing pole, an anchor, a kayak, all he’s scavenged so far that might be useful. He broods over what the fire took. The little dog shudders in her sleep. Outside, in the summer heat, the cat watches over the garden, the garden which is now empty and has been for years.