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over, thatshe didn’t know what she’d do if she ever lost her Little Bit.
    That should have been enough to end Millie’s fascination with the No-Fur world, but it wasn’t. Every night Millie would listen for voices coming from across the lake, the five miles of water that separated the Yare village from the campground where the No-Furs would come to pitch their tents and light their fires, roast their delicious-smelling meat on sticks, and sometimes, sing.
    Tulip, of course, had no interest in No-Fur foods and No-Fur songs. Tulip was a head taller and much heavier than Millie, and she would probably rusticate first. As soon as her ear tips and the circles around her eyes were completely dark, she’d be an Elder, able to hold the Speaking Stick, a grown-up with a voice and with power. Tulip’s parents, Millie knew, thought their daughter would be a much better Ruler than Millie, even though they’d never dared to say so to Maximus.
    â€œMill-ee.” Tulip was tapping one large bare foot against the dirt. “I am losing the patience with you.”
    â€œWait.” Millie’s sharp ears had picked up more car sounds. She scrambled back up the tree.
    Across the water, a procession of cars was rolling down the dirt road, stirring up a cloud of dust. She could hear raised voices, slammed doors, the sound of drumsand someone strumming a guitar, and No-Furs calling greetings, asking, “How was your summer?” and saying, “Good to see you!”
    Millie was so excited that she could barely breathe. She wanted to jump up and down, to wave her arms and shout, “I’m here!” or go racing across the water. Instead, to calm herself, she sang a lullaby that Old Aunt Yetta had taught her.
    â€œThe summer wind, came blowin’ in from across the sea,” Millie sang softly. She watched a boy open the back end of a car and lift out a heavy bag and a suitcase. “It lingered there to touch your hair and walk with me,” she sang. If she ever had the chance to audition for The Next Stage , she’d sing that song. She could see herself, in a silvery dress the exact color of her silvery fur, clutching the slim stalk of the microphone and closing her eyes as she sang. Except, in the daydream, she didn’t have fur but skin, smooth, lovely skin, sometimes pinky white, sometimes golden brown, sometimes a radiant black that was almost blue. Human skin.
    She closed her eyes and listened. There were women singing on the other side of the shore, their voices, thin and warbling, raised in a wobbly three-part harmony. “When John Henry was a little baby, sittin’ on his mama’s knee . . .”
    By their third time through, Millie had the words andthe melody, and she joined in, perfectly in tune, when they began the song again. “Picked up a hammer in his little right hand / said,  ‘Hammer gonna be the death of me, Lord, Lord / Hammer gonna be the death of me.’ ” Only why would baby’s own hammer be the death of him? Was there some hammer-related mishap in an upcoming verse?
    Tulip was glaring at her. “If you don’t stop with that racket, Teacher Greenleaf will be the death of you.”
    Millie ignored her. I wish, she thought as she stared across the lake, as if wishing could magically transport her over the miles, over the water, to the place where she wanted to be.
    I wish there weren’t Yare around all the time . The Elders loved her, she knew, but their love could feel like suffocation, like being crammed into an itchy sweater that had been too small for years.
    I wish there weren’t so many rules: “Millie, keep your voice down!” “Millie, try to keep up with your packmates!” “Millie, pay the attention!” “Millie, sit up with a straightness!”
    I wish I was having the choice, she thought.
    I wish I could leave here.
    I wish I could sing.

CHAPTER 6

    G OOD