Read Online How to Look for a Lost Dog by Ann M. Martin - Free Book Online

front porch and considers this. At last he says, “You can go outside, but don’t leave our yard. There are power lines down and you could electrocute yourself. Don’t go near any wires, and don’t go near any water either. You have no idea how powerful rushing water is.”
    â€œCould Rain swim in it?” I ask.
    â€œIn rushing water? Probably not.”
    I walk all around our yard. I call, “Rain! Rain! Rain!” I have to step over branches and climb over the fallen trees.
    No sign of Rain.
    I walk down the slope towards Hud Road, but stop when I reach the water. The water in our yard is not moving fast, but I don’t know how deep it is. The water by the road is moving fast. It’s rushing, just like my father said. I throw a branch in and it disappears immediately. I don’t see it again.
    I call for Rain, but the water is so loud I can barely hear my voice.
    I go back inside. My father is sitting at the kitchen table trying to tune the battery-powered radio.
    â€œPiece of junk,” he mutters, just before a voice comes booming into the room.
    â€œIt works,” I say, and then remember my father’s sarcasm remark about being observant. I wait for him to say something, but he just keeps fiddling with the knobs.
    Finally he tunes into a weather alert about a flood warning.
    â€œWhat a surprise,” says my father. “A flood warning.”
    This sarcasm is directed at the radio.
    For lunch we each eat a banana and an untoasted bagel with peanut butter. Then my father says, “Might as well begin cleaning up the yard. There’s nothing else to do.”
    â€œI wish we could talk to Uncle Weldon,” I say.
    â€œWell, we can’t. The phone doesn’t work and the roads aren’t passable.”

    We work in the yard all afternoon. By the time the light fades, most of the branches have been piled up to use for kindling when they dry out. The trees will be cut up later with power saws.
    My father starts to walk towards our dark house. I stand in the yard for a moment and look all around. Maybe I will see Rain’s eyes shining in the last of the daylight. I stare and stare (stair and stair).
    Nothing.
    I have trouble sleeping that night. I lie in bed and think about Rain. I get up five times and check the front porch to see if she’s followed her nose home. But I don’t see her.
    Finally I fall asleep. I don’t wake up until morning, when my father knocks on my door. He steps inside and says, “School is going to be closed indefinitely.” He’s carrying the battery-powered radio.
    â€œIs Rain on the porch?” I ask.
    My father sighs. “No.”
    â€œWhat are we going to do today?”
    He gestures out the window. “Sun is shining. It’s a little warmer. We can work in the yard again.”
    â€œOkay. How long do you think indefinitely is?”
    My father shakes his head. “Rose, indefinitely is indefinitely. It means they don’t know.”
    So indefinitely implies uncertainty. I don’t like uncertainty.
    â€œCouldn’t someone make a guess?” I ask. “I really need to know.”
    â€œSorry. You’re going to have to wait.” My father holds out the radio. “I’ve been listening to the news,” he says. “The power is out everywhere. Millions of people are in the dark. Millions . It could take weeks to restore it. And your school won’t open until the power is back.”
    But I need my routine.
    Most of all I need Rain.
    My father and I eat dry cereal and crackers with peanut butter for breakfast. Then we step into our yard again. My father looks at the fallen trees. I walk towards Hud and look at the water. It seems a little lower in our yard. But all around me I can still hear a loud whooshing sound. Whooshing and roaring. The little brooks have become streams and the streams have become rivers. I can imagine that if they washed away our bridge,