McNally’s golden retriever eased from his doghouse in the backyard and ambled up to the fence at the end of the drive. He pressed his muzzle through the chain link. “Hey Buster,” I said, and reached over the fence and rubbed the hollow behind his ear. The dog pressed into my hand. Loyal, brave, which was all that mattered. I glanced up at McNally’s window, then pulled my arm back over the fence.
The boat’s canvas top was secured with a square knot, easy to loosen. I slipped under the fabric and into the boat, where I pulled my laptop from my rucksack and connected it to one of the 12-Volt batteries that McNally’s dad kept under the seats.
The screen’s blue light washed the underside of the canvas and the waxy vinyl of the boat seating. While the laptop chirred, I unfurled a sleeping bag
