She smiled. “No. I think it would be good. It’s about time he finally had a normal girlfriend.”

I wasn’t certain I liked being called “normal,” nor was I sure it was a ringing endorsement. But considering the source, it was probably the best I was going to get.

“Thanks, Nevaeh,” I said, and bounced from the bed just as Drew popped his head into the room.

“What are you two yakking about in here?”

“You,” Nevaeh said, without a second’s hesitation.

“Why would I think it would be anything else?” Drew tossed something onto the floor. Two somethings, actually. “Here, Bree, try these on.”

I stared. “Hiking boots?”

“Yeah, they’re my sister’s. You look like you two probably wear the same size shoe. Considering what we’re going to be doing today, I think you need some sturdier footwear.”

I recoiled. “Oh, no. I’ll be just fine in my sneakers.”

“Do you remember that laundry basket that attacked you at your landlady’s? If you’d had on those boots that thing never would have stood a chance. Try them on.”

Realizing he had a point, I reluctantly laced on his sister’s Timberlands. And was disappointed when they fit just fine.

“Oh, my mom’s shoes look good on you,” Nevaeh commented. “You look kinda like a pink-haired Lara Croft.”

I chose to take this as a compliment. “Okay,” I said. “Well, we’d better go. We have a lot of pets to look after.”

“I’d offer to come with,” Nevaeh said, “but Uncle Ed says he needs me at the café again today. He’s serving food all day until curfew.” Her tone suggested she was making a great sacrifice, but I wasn’t fooled.

“And I suppose Marquise will be there, too,” I teased.

She turned away with a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

But I saw that she’d flat-ironed her hair to an extra sheen, belying her indifference.

Grabbing Drew’s tool kit and all the extra pet food we could scrounge from the Hartwells, as well as their generous neighbors, we got back on my scooter and jetted to the first few houses on Mrs. Hartwell’s list.

There didn’t appear to be any sort of common denominator among the people who’d left their pets behind. It wasn’t merely students like Sonny and Chett. It also turned out to be wealthy but slightly senile widows who lived in mansions like Mrs. Hartwell’s and who’d left their beloved cats in the care of ne’er-do-well sons who’d abandoned them. Or large and loving families who had been unable to find room in their car for their enormous fish tank (both cat and fish turned out to be fine, if ravenous).

Then there were the homes in which we found no sign of pets at all. No food bowls, no litter boxes, no leashes, squeaky toys, or pet hair. These turned out to belong to people who’d lied to get on the list in order to have their homes checked for damage. Because there was no other way to communicate with anyone on the island—unless you knew someone with a landline or a satellite phone—a few people had said they had a pet in order to get us to go and check to see if their house was still standing, having seen all the dramatic reports on the news about the severe damage sustained by the island.

These people, we decided, would receive no answers to their questions as punishment for wasting our time.

For other homes, however, the news was not so good, nor the reasons behind the owner’s decision to leave their pets behind so easy to understand.

“Hey, I know this house,” Drew said, as we pulled up beside a small “Conch” home close to the marina. Called “Conch” homes because they’d been built in the late nineteenth century by Bahamian immigrants, the houses were known for their timber framing, large windows, and high ceilings, all constructed to allow cooling in the days before air-conditioning.

“Oh, really?” I glanced down at the list that had been faxed to us. “You know Duane Conner?”

“Yeah, I know Duane.” Drew was already off the back of my scooter and heading toward the house. “He’s got two pit bull mixes. I see him all the time with them down at the dog beach.”

I pulled off my helmet. It was a hot day, and I’d been sweating beneath it. “There’s a dog beach? I thought you lived on the dog beach.”

“No, there’s another beach, over on the Gulf side, where everyone’s allowed to let their dogs off leash. Duane takes his dogs there all the time. They’re good dogs, just a little rough unless Duane is around to handle them. Are you sure that information is right?” He stood in the middle of the storm-ravaged yard, staring at the house. “Duane would never evacuate without Turbo and Orion.”

I checked the list. “It says here that Duane was out of town when the storm hit, and he left his dogs in the care of his brother, Max, and that Max called and said he freaked out and took off without them.”

Drew shook his head angrily the second he heard the name Max. “Damn it. Yeah, that would explain it. Max has always been less than reliable. Okay, come on. How are we supposed to get inside?”

“We aren’t,” I said, a feeling of dread growing in my stomach. “It says Max may have left the dogs tied to the back porch.”

Drew swore.

But that’s where we found them—after climbing over a back fence. Two very sad-looking pit bull mixes. It was clear by the water line along the house that the floodwaters had reached the porch, and that the dogs had been forced during the storm to swim for a while.

The waters had then receded, and the dogs were fine now.

But they’d had no food for some time, since whatever Max had left out for them had floated away in the flood.

The dogs were overcome at the sight of us, barking and crying with joy.

“Next time I see him, I’m going to kill Max,” Drew said, as he saw the bedraggled mutts, their backsides wiggling with pathetic excitement.

I pressed my lips together to keep myself from saying anything I’d regret.

“At least he was honest,” I said, instead, tipping over the bag of dry cat food we’d brought with us into the dogs’ bowls. It was the only food we had left and was courtesy of Mrs. Hartwell. She saved it for the feral cats from the church down the street, both of whom were fine and accounted for.

The dogs didn’t care what kind of food it was. They devoured it eagerly, then looked up, anxious for more.

“At least he told Duane the truth about abandoning the dogs, and Duane called us.”

“I don’t care if Max told him the truth,” Drew said, untying the dogs’ leashes from the back porch railing. “I’m still killing him. And we’re taking them. They’re my dogs now.”

“No, they’re not.” Drew said this at practically every home we visited. “You can take them for a walk, or even take them back to your aunt’s, if you want, until their owner gets back into town. But you can’t keep every pet we find.”

“I’m keeping them until Duane gets back. I’m not surrendering them to anyone but Duane. And if I see that idiot Max, I’m killing him!”

“At least Max told his brother the truth, so he could call us,” I repeated.

I didn’t want to think about how many animal owners hadn’t seen or heard about my mom’s online post, and so hadn’t contacted us yet.