How to Steal a Dog by Barbara O'Connor

almost broke my heart and made me tell that lady Carmella everything. But, of course, I didn’t. My head was swimming with so many mixed-up thoughts I couldn’t get myself to say anything.
    Carmella shuffled over to a cluttered desk and rummaged through a drawer, then pulled out some paper. She took a red marker out of a mason jar on the desk and stared down at the paper.
    â€œWhat should I say?” she said.
    â€œHow about ‘Lost. Little black-and-white dog named Willy,’” I said.
    â€œAnd then put ‘Reward,’” Toby said.
    Dern. How come he had to go and say that? I was going to ease into that part, but it was too late now.
    â€œReward?” Carmella looked kind of confused.
    I jumped in there before Toby could. “Uh, yeah,” I
said. “That’s a good idea. You know, just to make sure people notice and stuff.”
    â€œYou mean, like, money?” Carmella stared down at the paper on the desk.
    â€œYeah, money,” Toby said.
    I shot him a look. I wished he’d hush up and let me do the talking.
    â€œYeah, money,” I said. “That would make folks try real hard to find Willy.”
    â€œGosh,” Carmella said, “I don’t know.” She pressed her lips together and kept staring down at the paper on the desk. Then she looked up at me and Toby. “How much money?” she said.
    â€œFive hundred dollars,” Toby blurted out.
    â€œFive hundred dollars!” Carmella kind of swayed a little bit like she was going to fall right over. “I haven’t got that kind of money.”
    â€œYou don’t?” I said.
    She shook her head.
    â€œThen how much reward could you pay?” I said.
    â€œWell, I was thinking maybe, like, fifty dollars?”
    Fifty dollars? That wasn’t nearly enough. I felt Toby watching me. My mind was racing. But before I could think of what to say, Carmella sank down onto the lumpy couch with a whoosh. Then she shook her head and said, “I guess that’s not very much, huh?”
    â€œWell, um, maybe you could get some more,” I said.

    Carmella looked down at her lap. Little beads of sweat formed on her upper lip.
    â€œI could ask for some extra hours at work,” she said. “But that won’t help much.” Then she snapped her fingers. “I know what! I’ll see if I can borrow some money from Gertie.”
    â€œYeah,” Toby said. Then he added, “Who’s Gertie?”
    â€œMy sister.”
    â€œIs she the one who owns this street?” I said.
    Carmella chuckled. “Lord, no,” she said. “She teaches school over in Fayetteville.”
    â€œThen who owns this street?” I said. “Your daddy or somebody?”
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘owns this street’?” Carmella frowned at me.
    â€œI just figured since your last name is Whitmore and …”
    â€œOh!” Carmella said. “You mean ’cause this is Whitmore Road?”
    I nodded.
    Carmella shook her head. “My great-granddaddy owned all this land one time.” She swept her arm out toward the window.
    â€œHe built this house with his very own hands. Brick by brick,” she said. “And had a big ole farm that went way on out there past the highway.”
    I looked out the window toward the highway. A bad feeling was starting to fall over me. Maybe I’d gotten
this whole thing wrong. Maybe Carmella wasn’t rich after all.
    â€œWhat happened to the farm?” I said.
    â€œMy granddaddy tried to keep it up, but it just got away from him,” she said. “I guess he wasn’t much of a farmer.” She shook her head as she gazed out the window. “By the time my daddy got this house,” she went on, “the only thing left of the family farm was this little ole yard and our name on a street sign.”
    â€œMaybe your daddy could give you some money,” I said.
    â€œHe died eight years