One

      Joe Camden hadn’t expected to get a lump in his throat. Sentimental emotions weren’t usually his style. But something happened when he got out of his car and looked down at the old ramshackle house.

      Home. That was what it was, even though he’d been gone for fifteen years, even though he’d run as fast and as far away as he could when he’d had the chance.

      “Ah, you’ll miss it,” Annie Andrews had said, shaking her gray head and laughing at him the day he took off. He’d stopped by to get supplies for his hitchhiking odyssey in her tiny combination post office and general store. “Alaska will call you back.”

      “Not me,” he’d said, sure enough of that to grin at her. “It’s bright lights and big cities for me from now on.”

      “And girls,” she added for him, laughing again. “It’s true, we don’t have enough girls here for you young men. It’s no wonder you all run off.”

      His wide mouth twisted in a half smile as he remembered that day and thought of all the things that he’d been through since. Now he was back, and Annie was half-right. The Alaska grandeur, the white peaks, the forest green meadows, the water tumbling through the gorges still had the power to stir him. But it really wasn’t home any longer. He belonged in L.A.

      Still, everything was the same as ever. It hardly looked as though anything had changed since he’d left. The old house where his brother, Greg, still lived looked as beat-up as ever. Evidence suggested Greg was as allergic to responsibility as their father had been—but then, Joe hadn’t expected anything else. In fact, that was why he’d come back.

      A rustling caught his ear, and he glanced toward the nearby trees. He caught a glimpse of what looked like brown fur in the underbrush, and the past came tumbling back to him even more strongly.

      “Champ,” he murmured, remembering his childhood pet, the energetic brown dog who would hide in the bushes and then jump out at him, licking his face and wriggling in his arms. Without thinking, without wanting to remember that Champ had died when he was eighteen, he went toward the brush and stuck his hand into the leaves where he’d seen the movement, as though he could find that puppy just as he had so often so many years ago, as though he thought he might be able to reach back into yesterday and pull the dog up by the scruff of the neck.

      “Champ?”

      Champ didn’t answer, but something with teeth bit down on his hand, and he yanked it back, swearing. “Ouch. What the hell...?”

      A small boy emerged from the underbrush, running as fast as his chubby little legs could take him, his brown hair bouncing on his head as he ran straight for the house.

      “Hey,” Joe called after him, but the little boy didn’t turn. He ran on, stumbling