Eden by Keith; Korman

master said to the potter:
    â€œWe shall wait with you.”
    Then to Judas and the others:
    â€œLet us remain here in the street. Let us rest by the open door where our thoughts and prayers can be heard by all who listen from above and those who listen from within.”
    The companions began to complain. The street was too hard, the night too cold, with nothing but a house wall to rest their heads on. They’d even given away their cloaks in the last town, and if they paid for the broken pot there’d be no money even for a crust of bread in the morning.
    The animals grumbled too, even though they knew discomfort more than people. Each of them looked for places to bed down as the dark came on. Samson was too big in the narrow street to find a comfortable spot, complaining to anyone who would listen, “No grass, no water … nowhere to lie down. I want a stable with a manger. There must be one nearby.” Craning his neck and trying to look around corners. “Do you see a stable down there? Let’s find a manger.”
    And the lambs were no better, crying as one, “What about us? What about us? Doesn’t anyone care about us?”
    â€œShush, all of you!” Eden scolded. “You’ve been colder before, hungrier before, and no one says you have to stay!”
    Ashamed, the young lambs looked down at their hooves. They huddled by the nearest wall, making do as best they could. Samson wedged down in a tight corner, beside them. The donkey dipped his ears, “And no doubt I’ll be colder and hungrier again. Certainly by tomorrow morning if not sooner!” he grumbled.
    The lambs, hopeful as always, bleated, “But look how cozy it is now!”
    Eden lay on the potter’s doorstep so she could watch both inside and out. The dog on the child’s bed glared at her with dangerous eyes, pressing his body across the child’s legs—but she ignored him. Instead she stared at her master and the one named Judas who seemed to have forgotten everything around them, the two men silently gazed into each other’s eyes as the rest slept.
    Murmured prayers hung in the air as the night closed in.
    The potter sat at the open door as well, the girl’s mother curled by the foot of the bed, and both nodded in restless sleep, their heads to their breasts. The night lengthened …
    Eden suddenly opened her eyes. She must have fallen asleep.
    Her master stood in the doorway looking in. The potter and the potter’s wife lifted their heads in alarm and the dog on the child’s bed bared its teeth. Be warned .
    Eden partially rose an inch from her place on the doorstep and on all four paws crawled on her belly into the room. She barely moved her legs, head down, ears back—still the dog on the bed growled, low and long.
    As Eden lay on the floor inside the room, she rolled on her side. She could feel the fear inside the other dog’s mind. His memory of the sudden fall from the ramp: the terror in the child’s arms as they fell through the air, the brutal thump when they landed in the hay cart. The dog on the bed began to tremble—
    â€œIt’s over now,” Eden told him. “You’re not going to fall again. No one is going to hurt you. Let my master touch your girl. Let me come close and kiss your ear.”
    â€œWhy?” the dog growled low in his throat, his paws pressing the child’s legs. “Why do they never listen? I told her not to run on the ramps! I always tell them that!”
    Eden crawled an inch closer. “They never listen. Not to us. Not even to each other.”
    The dog on the bed stopped trembling. Something in Eden’s voice touched him in a good way. And his ears perked to listen more. “They should listen.”
    â€œYes, they should,” Eden said. “Let us both show we can listen even when they don’t. Listen to me now.” She crawled closer. Her nose just under the bed. “Can