Six Degrees of Lost

By Linda Benson

Sometimes you have to take a journey to find out where you belong.

With nowhere else to land, Olive gets shipped off to live with her aunt in rainy Washington State. Stuck in the country and surrounded with rescue animals, she longs to be reunited with her mother. On a search for the owner of a lost yellow Lab, she meets David, a boy who lives in the fancy houses along the river.

As the friendship between these two grows, it will ultimately lead them to a risky crossroads, where they are both forced to choose what really matters in life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seven Trails Press
• Release date: Jun 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533732996

Linda Benson

Award-winning author Linda Benson writes fiction for animal lovers of all ages. Her novels include THE GIRL WHO REMEMBERED HORSES, SIX DEGREES OF LOST, WALKING THE DOG, FINDING CHANCE, and THE HORSE JAR (which has been translated into Spanish.) She also writes a series of short fiction called CAT TALES. Ms. Benson has been a veterinary assistant, zoo keeper, racetrack groom, realtor, children's librarian, and has owned both a native plant nursery and a saddle shop. She currently teaches English as a second language. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and a myriad of animals.

Book preview

1)   Olive

Tires squeal on the road out front and I bang open the broken screen door and race down the gravel driveway to the pavement. A bewildered yellow dog straddles the white line looking lost and unsure, exactly the way I felt when I landed here at Aunt Trudy’s last month. I stare far down the road where a black car speeds away in the distance, leaving a trail of dust where the road turns to gravel.

Come here, boy. I pat my hand on the side of my leg. Come on.

The dog pricks his ears and galumphs his way over. He pants in the hot sun, like he’s been running hard.

Hey, bud, you’re lucky you didn’t get hit. I crouch on one knee next to him in the shade of tall fir trees that line the road. My hair falls in my face, and as I twist it up into a ponytail, the dog practically knocks me over with wet kisses. Stop it, I laugh. I swipe the canine slobber off my arm and start toward the house. C’mon, crazy dog.

Aunt Trudy stands on the porch, shading her eyes from the sun. Is he okay, Olive? Did he get hit? Damn speeders... she mumbles to herself, but I hear her.

I don’t think so. The yellow dog cavorts around my feet, following me. He seems fine.

I wonder where he came from? Aunt Trudy frowns and shakes her head. Strays. They always seem to end up here.

A knot tightens in the pit of my stomach. Is she talking about the dog, or me?

Does he have a tag or anything on him? asks Aunt Trudy.

I ruffle my hands all around the dog’s neck. His red collar is so tight it’s almost embedded in his skin, but there’s not one mark of identification on him, anywhere. The dog’s tail weaves slowly back and forth as my hands caress him.

Nope.

Well, bring him up here on the porch. Let’s get him some water.

It must be ninety degrees or so. Pretty warm for Washington State, with its tall trees and green woods. Mom said it rained here all the time, and that’s why she left as soon as she turned eighteen. But I’ve been at Aunt Trudy’s since May, and it’s only rained once.

His collar’s pretty tight.

You’re right, says my aunt, trying to push her hand underneath it. Needs to come off of there, now. Her sturdy fingers fumble with the red nylon, trying to prod the metal tongue back through the hole. Hold still, sweet boy. That’s a good dog. The dog wiggles at first, but listens to Aunt Trudy.

What kind of dog is he?

Lab. Probably a purebred, from the looks of him. Pretty good natured, most of them. Damn, she snorts. How can people let a dog wear a collar like this? He can barely breathe. Finally the buckle gives, and the stiff red nylon drops onto the hot concrete of the front porch.

The big dog shakes his whole body and runs in happy circles around the lawn. Get him a drink, Olive, would you?

I’m one step ahead of her, and already have a dish of fresh water for him. Come here, boy. I set the bowl down on the edge of the lawn, and he laps up more than half without stopping. Thirsty, weren’t you? Do you think he’ll run off—go back into the road?

Before the words are out of my mouth, the yellow dog crawls under the shade of the porch swing, curls in a ball, thumps his tail a few times, and closes his eyes to nap.

Aunt Trudy and I exchange glances and begin to giggle. I don’t think he’s going anywhere right now, she says.

Shh, I whisper. You might wake him.

She winks at me. Looks like he’s had a long night. Out cavorting around.

So, now what? I ask. Are we going to put him back there with the other ones? There are already four stray dogs in the backyard. One husky, a pit bull, a shepherd mix, and a beagle that howls during the night. The first few nights I was here the noise woke me, but now I sleep right through it. Do you think they’ll get along?

Aunt Trudy scrunches up her face. I just don’t know, she says.

Should we let him in the house?

This probably isn’t a good idea. The house is already filled with six or eight cats, the ones they don’t have room for at the animal shelter. My cat, Rags, doesn’t like any of the other animals and mostly stays in the room where I sleep.

Time to operate the Neighborhood Knowledge System, she says.

What’s that?

It’s like Six Degrees of Separation, she continues. Ever heard of that? One person knows someone, who knows somebody else, who heard something about it, that tells someone else, and so on. In about six phone calls, you can sometimes get an animal home.

Really? I wish six phone calls would get me back home. But where is home? Mom turned in the keys of the apartment on Bishop Drive before she had to leave, and Dad’s gone for the summer, selling T-shirts at Lakers games. My brother Pendleton rode up here with me on the Greyhound bus, with my cat Rags stashed away in the bottom of my purple zipper bag. But after Aunt Trudy picked us up at the bus station, Pendleton left right away to join the army. So the only home I have at this very moment is Aunt Trudy’s guest room. Where me and Rags are staying, but only temporarily.

2) David

Are you finished with your essay yet, David?

I’m working on it, I holler down the stairs to my mom. I actually haven’t even started it, although I have opened my laptop. What are my plans for the future, and how will these advanced classes help me achieve that goal? Yada, yada, yada. Just so much BS, like everything else around me.

It’s probably gonna be ninety-five degrees again today, which is ridiculously hot for Washington. The weather guy on TV called it an early heat wave, but it’s not like there’s anything fun to do here when it’s this hot. James and Sherman and me were going to take James’s raft down the river this afternoon, but now that’s not even happening. James got grounded for some stupid thing, like forgetting to pay for a new shirt at Target. So I’m stuck here in the air-conditioned house with my mom harping on me.

Well, you need to have your essay done and ready to send by the end of the week. Mom’s voice has a gravelly edge to it. It almost doesn’t sound like her. All she does these days, since both of my brothers left home, is lie on the couch flipping through the channels of the big-screen TV, most of the time with a drink in her hand. But she must be starting early today. It’s not even noon yet.

I look out across our sheared back lawn, sloping down to the banks of the river. I like this view best when the gardeners are done for the day, and I can just listen to the quiet rhythm of the river running over rapids.

Restless, I wander down the long hallway, glancing into my brothers’ immaculate empty rooms. Lincoln’s honor achievement plaques are lined up perfectly on his wall, and Grant’s football trophies catch the rays of sunlight streaming into his lonely room. It’s so silent in the house since they left. My oldest brother Lincoln is on a ship in the Persian Gulf, and Grant’s been in Afghanistan since last December. Which is about the time my mom started having her daily cocktails.

I slink down the stairs. My mom is stretched out on the sofa watching a cooking show. I’m not sure what for—she barely cooks anymore. Sure enough, she has an iced goblet of some concoction in her hand, her polished nails tapping an aimless rhythm on the glass.

Is that you, David?

Busted.

I thought you were upstairs working? She doesn’t even glance up at me. I could be a burglar for all she knows.

I started, I say, which isn’t exactly true. I’m going for a bike ride to help clear my head. It’s where I get my best ideas. Geez, I am so full of bullshit I surprise even myself.

Are you sure? It’s so hot out. She waves her hand aimlessly in my direction. Would you mind getting the newspaper, hon? I think it came late this morning.

What am I, her errand boy? No problem, I mutter. I open the garage door and a wave of stale, hot air envelopes me. It feels more like one hundred degrees. My mountain bike balances on a rack against the wall behind my mom’s SUV, but it’s not like I actually have anywhere to go. Maybe she’s right—it probably is too hot to ride in the middle of day. I sprint to the end of our long paved driveway, grab the paper out of the box, and race back inside, where the cool draft of air conditioning washes over me.

Thanks, David, she says, as I hand her the rolled-up paper.

Yep, I trudge up the stairs to my room, where my computer blinks silently on my desk, waiting for me to manufacture some fantastic essay about my life and goals for the future. This summer is such a joke.

3) Olive

While the yellow dog rests in the shade under the porch swing, I follow Aunt Trudy into the kitchen. She pages through her phone book and punches numbers into the telephone. I’ll call Alonna Richardson first, she whispers. She knows everything that goes on around here.

I nod, but this Six Degrees thing sounds like a crazy scheme to me. Aunt Trudy’s had a lot of experience, though. She operates a foster care for the overflow from the county Humane Society. The dogs we have in our back yard, and the cats inside, would probably be put to sleep by now because of crowded conditions at the shelter. Aunt Trudy keeps them until they find a new home. She even has a couple of neglected horses in the corrals out back.

Well, she says, hanging up the phone, Alonna said her dogs were barking something fierce this morning, and when she peeked outside, there was a dog running down the road.

A yellow one?

She didn’t get a real good look at it, but thought it was a pretty large dog. She said to call Janet Helmer, because her neighbors have a dog like that, and they’ve been on vacation. Aunt Trudy pats a dirty dish towel to the beads of sweat on her brow.

I know she’s Mom’s older sister, but she’s got way more wrinkles than Mom does. Maybe it just seems that way because she doesn’t cover them up with makeup.

Whew, it’s going to be hot as tamales today, says my aunt, and it’s getting hotter by the minute. Would you put some tea bags in this jar, Olive, for iced tea? She reaches into the top cupboard and hands me an enormous glass jar.

Gotcha. Where do you keep them? She points to the corner cupboard, above the coffee. While she shuffles around digging for another phone number, I climb up on the counter to reach the tea bags, and shove several down into the bottom of the jar. I fill it with cold water and hug it close to my chest as I walk to the front porch, where the beating sun almost immediately begins to turn the water a clear cinnamon brown. I watch the water swirl and settle down, and hear the yellow dog snoring softly from the shady spot under the porch swing.

Everything is so different here. Not like our last apartment in California, with cars outside on the expressway, and tires squealing and sirens and television sets and noisy neighbors. On the narrow tree-lined road out front of Aunt Trudy’s, unless there’s a car or a tractor going by, you can’t hear anything. Well, except the dogs growling and play-fighting in the back. And in the morning the two horses whinny for their hay, and up in the sky, little swallows swoop and dart and sing all day long. Like I said, it’s way different.

After a few minutes I climb the concrete steps into the kitchen, catching the screen door behind me so it doesn’t bang and startle the dog. What’d you find out?

I called Janet, says Aunt Trudy, and she ran and peeked over her neighbor’s fence, but their lab was sleeping in its dog house, so that’s a dead end.

I shrug. Was that two degrees of separation or three? I steal a glance out to the porch. The yellow Lab is still napping under the swing. What do we do now?

Tell you what, hon. It’s too hot to do anything. I’m not used to heat like this. He isn’t either. She motions toward the dog, sleeping like a rock. Along toward evening, when it begins to cool down, we’ll go talk to some folks down at the other end of the road. See if anyone is missing a dog.

You mean those fancy houses down by the river?

"Those people might have a purebred Lab like this. Although when I find the owner, I don’t care who they are, I’m going to give ’em a piece of my mind for leaving a collar on a dog so tight. Hmmphh."

Aunt Trudy growls under her breath, and I stifle a laugh. She’s a very nice lady, but I wouldn’t want to get on her mad side.

Wheww, this heat is just getting to me. Would you mind if I laid down for a bit, Olive?

Aunt Trudy does look a little flushed. But I don’t mind if we take a rest, because I found this great old book in my room called Gone with the Wind and it’s getting pretty interesting. What about the dog?

Well, we can’t bring him in, she says. It would upset all the cats. Aunt Trudy lifts her gray-brown hair up off the back of her neck. She wears it plain and loose, not bleached blond and styled like Mom’s.

I can sit out here on the porch swing and read my book, I offer. That way I can watch him. Maybe if I help more, my aunt won’t feel like I’m a burden—something else she has to take care of.

Okay, hon. I appreciate it. For some reason, I’m just not feeling up to par today. Must be the heat.

I go inside to retrieve the thick paperback and find my page. Rags seems perfectly comfortable, snoozing at the end of the bed on my old blue blanket. I’ve had that thing since, like second grade, and about seven different houses ago.

I stroke Rags under her orange chin and she breaks into a rumbly purr. She’s actually a whole mix of funny colors—orange, brown, striped and gray, which is how she got her name. I thought she was a calico, but Aunt Trudy says she’s tortoiseshell, ’cause there’s no white on her anywhere.

The guest room is tiny. Aunt Trudy shoved a couple of ancient computers off to the side, and stacked some overflowing boxes in a haphazard pile back in the corner. There’s a single bed, and a small dresser with a mirror. I haven’t put anything away yet. I just dragged one of the extra kitchen chairs in here to set my suitcase on. I have all my clothes folded neatly where I can find them, right in the suitcase.

Mom’s only staying a little while in jail. She wrote a few bad checks because we were short of food, which sounded like a perfectly good reason to me. She would have only gotten probation, but because she used a credit card that didn’t belong to her, the judge sentenced her to actual jail time. My dad travels a lot, always has. He is somewhere, who knows where, on the road selling T-shirts. And Pendleton, the best brother in the whole wide world, is learning how to be a soldier, in someplace called Fort Benning, Georgia. Which sounds like a long, long ways away.

Which means that one thirteen-year-old girl—me—Olive Louise Kristopherson and also my best cat Rags, are stuck here in the guest room at Aunt Trudy’s. But only temporarily. I grab my book, shut the door behind me, and head for the porch to watch the yellow lab that is temporarily sleeping there.

We’re going for a ride in the truck later, I whisper. To try and find your home.

4) David

I’m flipping through channels on the flat-screen television in my room, but there’s nothing on except stupid old movies. My computer sits untouched on my desk in the corner. I’ve killed several hours of the day hiding out up here in my room.

I hear a noise that sounds like a truck pulling into the driveway, its engine running rough, but the gardeners aren’t due today, are they? I can’t see the front door from my window, but I hear a truck door slam, and then the long chime of the doorbell.

Curious, I head down the hall to the top of the stairs, and see my mom still parked on the couch in the living room.

Can you see who that is, David? She glances hopefully up at me.

I don’t answer her, but just shake my head as I rumble down the stairs to the entrance hall. Is she helpless these days?

Tell them I’m napping, she whispers to me as she catches my glance.

I peek through the stained-glass of our massive front door. A girl I don’t recognize stands outside, wearing tattered cut-offs, flip-flops, and a tight T-shirt that reads L.A. Lakers.

I open the door about a foot to get a better look. She wears absolutely no makeup and her blond hair is pulled back in a careless ponytail. She’s definitely got the cute factor going, but there’s something about her that seems just a little different from the girls around here.

Is this your dog? she asks. Her fingernails are short, chewed down to the nub, and she’s holding a leash with a big yellow dog at the end of it.

No, I say. The dog strains against her grasp, shoving his nose into my mother’s prize peonies. I step out onto the porch and shut the door behind me, so my mother won’t come out, although I don’t think she will. She’d probably wilt in this heat.

We’re trying to find out who he belongs to. He almost got hit by a car this morning.

I kneel down on the porch next to him. Hey, big guy. The yellow dog looks up from the flowers and licks my face. I’ve never seen him before. Where’d you find him?

On Upper Ridge Road. She turns and points behind her, where the main road heads uphill through a forest of fir trees. He was standing right out in the middle, panting, like he’d been running from somewhere, and a car almost hit him. He doesn’t have no tag, or nothin’.

Do you live up there? I know most of the girls around here, and I’ve never seen this one before.

No.

I’m waiting for her to say more, and watch as she scratches under her nose before she goes on.

I live down in California. Or I did. I’m staying with my aunt for a little while.

Oh. I glance over at the truck now, a 1990s Ford with a primer-colored right front fender. A woman sits behind the wheel. "So why did you think we owned the dog?"

She nods her head toward the truck. "Aunt Trudy’s got this theory. She rolls her eyes. Six degrees of separation."

Now I’m a little bit intrigued. Isn’t that something to do with that actor—Kevin...something?

Kevin Bacon? Yeah, like everybody’s only six degrees away from Kevin Bacon. Weird, huh? My aunt thinks it works for lost animals, too. We drove down here and started at the first house—that huge brown one. She points back to the beginning of River Crest Drive, where the McDaniels live. "They didn’t know anything about