Chapter one, Keenan.
You've probably seen the video.
It's been viewed over 18 million times.
A kitten has just slipped and
fallen into a pond.
All these geese are going nuts,
flapping, honking, and
making the poor little cat's panic
50 times worse than it already is.
Suddenly, a big dog, maybe a chocolate
lab, jumps into the water and
paddles over, trying to grab
the kitten by the scruff of the neck.
It's a matter of life and death.
The kitten is struggling,
about to go under.
Grab him,
I'm yelling encouragement like a doofus.
You can do it.
Just as the dog gets close, one of the
geese flaps in his face, driving him back.
But the lab doesn't give up.
The exhausted kitten
drops below the surface.
The dog lunges forward, sticking his snout
underwater in a desperate attempt to,
the screen flickers once and goes dark.
No, I howl.
Desperately, I pressed the power button,
and
the dead battery icon
appears on the screen.
Ouch.
I'm not really worried about the cat,
although it's hard not to get caught
up in the heat of the moment.
The title of the video was
Hero Dog Saves Drowning Kitten, so
I'm pretty sure everything came out okay.
The problem is my phone.
It's at zero already, and
it's barely afternoon.
Yesterday, it lasted until almost 2:30.
Now my only source of entertainment is
the strap on the lawn chair that's cutting
into my butt.
If I wasn't so tired I'd move.
But what would be the point?
A different strap would cut into
a different part of my body, and
then I'd definitely be
too tired to move again.
Dr. Sobel says I'll get my energy
back as I continue to recover, but
it's going to take a long time.
That's how tuberculosis works.
I don't even know where I picked it up.
It could have been in any of the countries
where my mom and my stepdad Klaus worked.
China, because that's where
we've lived for the past year.
But it could also have been Montenegro,
where we went on vacation, or
even Lesotho,
where we were before Shanghai.
According to the doctor,
the germs can live in your body for
years before you get sick.
But when you finally do, watch out.
It feels like someone parked
a locomotive on your chest.
You can't stop coughing, which isn't fun,
because you ache all over.
And lifting a paperclip takes
all the energy you've got.
Forget staying in Shanghai, where mom and
Klaus teach at an international school.
My dad made a huge stink that I had to
come back to the States for my treatment.
So here I am,
shivering with a low-grade fever under
a blanket in his backyard,
staring at Canada.
That's right, I said Canada.
Dad lives on Centerlight Island, Michigan,
in the middle of the St. Clair River.
In this area, the river is the dividing
line between the United States and Canada.
The border cuts right down the middle
of the island in a zigzag.
So I'm lying here recovering in Michigan.
But the cloud I'm staring up at, the one
that looks like a giraffe with no legs,
is actually over the province of Ontario.
The Quayle sisters, these two old ladies,
three houses down in that direction,
they're in Canada too.
If that seems complicated,
downtown is even worse.
The border goes right through it,
dividing the post office building in half.
One side sells American stamps,
and the other sells Canadian ones.
If you fill up with gas and
you want your car washed afterward,
you have to cross an international line.
Dad says the bowling alley is the only
place on earth where you can throw
a strike in another country.
There are no fences, no checkpoints,
no guys asking to look at your passport.
I've been all over the world, and
I'm positive that there's
no place quite like this.
People cross the border, maybe ten times
a day, just living their normal lives.
If GameStop is in Canada,
that's where you go to buy
an extra controller for your Xbox.
There are barely enough customers around
here to fill one town, let alone two.
No offense, but
coming from the big cities I've lived in,
Centerlight is pretty one-horse.
Not that I've got the strength
to do anything fun even if there
was something fun to do, there isn't.
That chair strap digging into my butt,
it's the highlight of my day.
In Shanghai, I'd visit friends on
a train that levitates above the track,
thanks to a system of futuristic magnets.
The closest we have to that
here is refrigerator magnets.
My job, lie here and get better.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly.
I can't even watch TV because Dr.
Sobel wants me outside in the fresh air.
I stream videos and play games on
my phone until the battery dies.
I've got the summer reading list for
my grade, but
I can't find the motivation
to pick up a book.
School starts in three weeks,
and there's no way dad and Dr.
Sobel will give me a clean bill
of health to fly back by then.
And it's not like any of my teachers
from 7,000 miles away are going to
randomly show up here, of all places,
and catch me goofing off.
I know that sounds lazy.
I am lazy, it's not my fault.
Tuberculosis makes you lazy.
Besides, even if I wanted to do something,
I probably wouldn't be allowed to.
I might cough on someone.
Although I'm coughing a lot less
than before, that's a good sign.
If I can start school in September,
and it doesn't kill me,
and every kid on the island doesn't
immediately come down with TB,
then maybe dad will give the okay for
me to go back to my life in Shanghai.
That's what I'm hoping for anyway.
I guess the word I'm
working toward is boring.
I'm so bored.
I didn't know it was possible to
be this bored and still be alive.
I've been staring at the same bushes for
so
long that I swear they're
staring back at me.
And then, the bushes blink.
At first, I'm not even surprised.
I could be dreaming.
Sometimes I doze off just because
there's nothing worth staying awake for.
But no, this is real.
There's a pair of eyes on the other
side of the hedge staring at me.
I sit bolt upright,
it's kind of impressive.
I haven't moved that fast since I got TB.
It gives me a bit of a head rush.
Who's there, I croak.
Hi, comes a voice.
There's a rustling, and this girl
squeezes right through the bushes,
her hands protecting her face
from the scratching branches.
She's about my age, blond,
skinny, with a heart-shaped face,
and huge inquiring blue eyes.
Her T-shirt features a red maple leaf
curled into a fist with the message,
yeah, I'm Canadian,
you wanna make something out of it?
A moment later, the bushes stir again, and
a dog passes through,
scrabbling on its belly.
A cocker spaniel, blond as the girl,
hurries to keep pace with her.
I perk up immediately at
the sight of the dog.
Then I remember, don't come too close,
I order the girl.
I could still be contagious.
She halts her progress,
but doesn't look worried.
You know, if you're sick,
you should really stay inside.
It's tuberculosis, I tell her.
I'm supposed to get as
much fresh air as I can.
Yeah, right, she says sarcastically.
And I've got bubonic plague,
so we should get along fine.
I'm serious, I have tuberculosis.
I got it in Asia, or Africa,
maybe Europe, she grins.
Why not Australia?
I've never lived in Australia.
I've lived in all those other places.
My mom teaches at international schools.
I see her glancing toward the house,
a frown on her face.
This is my dad's house.
He works at GM in Detroit.
She rolls her eyes.
Americans are so lucky,
you've got a bridge to the mainland.
I'm mystified,
the bridge has a no Canadians rule?
Of course not, but
it goes to the wrong side.
If you want to get to Canada,
you have to take the ferry.
Let me tell you, that's not exactly fun
when I'm crossing the river to school in
January with snow blowing into my face.
You don't go to the school
right here in town, I ask.
She shakes her head,
that's a Michigan school.
I have to graduate in Ontario, and
we don't have a school in Centrelight.
Most of the Canadians on the island
are retirees, not a lot of kids.
The nearest school for us is in Corona,
and that means a boat ride.
She stretches out her hand, I'm Zeebee.
I pull away from it.
I told you I might be contagious, I add.
I'm Keenan.
My real name is Zarabeth, she explains.
But who wants to be that?
My parents got it from this
classic Star Trek episode.
They're a couple of old nerds.
Zeebee doesn't interest me all that much,
but her dog is another story.
The spaniel whose eyes are even bigger
than Zeebee's is doing everything but
jump through hoops trying
to get her to notice him.
Who's your friend?
She frowns.
Friend?
I point, the one licking your ankle.
This is just Barney two, she replies,
shaking the spaniel off her leg.
The little dog lands flat on his face
on the grass, then bounces right up,
eager to spar another round.
He's a total ball of energy, yet at
the same time, he's really well behaved.
Despite his high spirits,
he never barks beyond the occasional yip.
His gaze rarely strays from his owner,
seeking attention.
Barney two, I echo.
Is there a Barney one?
There used to be.
He was murdered.
I choke,
which sets off a little of the TB cough.
Murdered?
Her face is grim.
Not everybody thinks so.
He was 15, that's pretty old for
a big dog.
But it was murder, I'd bet my life on it.
How can you be so sure?
Everybody hated Barney, she explains.
Canadians, Americans, it was the only
thing everyone agreed on around here.
It didn't matter what side
of the border you were from.
She looked so sad that I moved to say,
come on, it can't be that bad.
You never met Barney,
she insists mournfully.
We couldn't keep him tied up,
he always got away.
We had a six-foot fence,
he jumped it, and once he was loose,
he roamed all over the island digging,
barking, and pooping wherever he pleased.
He growled at people and
even bit them if they didn't back off.
He broke into the supermarket and
ransacked the food.
He howled so loud you could hear it
on the mainland in both countries.
He was part mastiff, so he was gigantic.
He was part Rottweiler,
so nothing scared him.
And he was part Newfoundland,
so if the cops came after him,
he just jumped in the river and
paddled away with his webbed feet.
He hated other dogs.
He didn't have a single friend, except me.
I didn't hate Barney, I loved him.
Someone had to.
For the first time,
I almost relate to her.
I love dogs.
We used to have one, Fluffy.
But when my folks split,
dad didn't wanna keep her, and mom and
I were heading overseas for
her first international school gig.
I don't remember much about Fluffy,
except that she would follow me around
all day and curl up with me at night.
I was only five.
I hope dad wasn't lying when he told me
she went to a good family with lots of
kids to play with.
How I hated those kids.
I used to lie in bed in Mumbai and
picture a bunch of random
strangers having fun with my dog.
At least dad didn't say Fluffy
went to live on a farm,
that would've been a dead giveaway.
We moved to a different country
practically every year, I volunteer.
My mom and class don't think it
would be practical to get a pet.
Zeebee nods sympathetically,
how clueless are parents?
They never understand.
My folks thought getting Barney
two would make feel better.
She scowls at the spaniel at her feet,
like this jumped up chipmunk
could ever replace my Barney.
It sounds to me as if nothing less than a
rampaging T-Rex could replace her Barney.
Aloud I say, he's a cute little guy.
And he's definitely nuts about you.
Exactly, she's triumphant.
Barney would never grovel
at somebody's sneakers.
Knock over their garden shed maybe, or
push their snow mobile into the river.
I reached down to pat Barney two,
but he shies away.
He only has eyes for
Zeebee, not that she gives him
a nanosecond's notice, poor little guy.
I pat my leg a couple of times and
he finally trots over.
I scratch his neck and
roll him onto his back and rub his belly.
He squirms with pleasure.
Even so, every few seconds, he gazes up at
his owner to make sure she's okay with it.
She never even glances his way.
It's safe, I tell Zeebee.
TB never travels from humans to animals.
She has no idea what I'm talking about.
Anyway, she forges on.
That's why I haven't figured
out who the murderer is yet.
Because everybody on Centerlight
is basically a suspect.
Or nobody is, I remind her, releasing the
spaniel with a pat on his silky haunches.
If Barney died of natural causes, that
makes a lot more sense than a phantom dog
killer on the loose on
a sleepy island like this.
She stares at me.
You're kidding right?
Centerlight, sleepy?
This place is the gangster
capital of North America.
I actually sit up and look around.
I've no idea what I expect to see,
criminals standing six
deep around my dad's yard.
Well, not so much now, she explains.
But back in the 20s and 30s, this was
the number one smuggling route for
rum runners, sneaking liquor from
Canada into the US during prohibition.
Half the houses on the Canadian side
used to be owned my mobsters who were
staying out of the reach of the FBI.
Guess who lived in my house?
Tommy Gunn Ferguson.
Can you believe that?
Who's Tommy Gunn Ferguson?
She shakes her head in amazement.
You really aren't from around here.
Thomas, Tommy Gunn Ferguson was
Al Capone's main connection
in the liquor business.
They made millions together.
And that was back in the days when
a candy bar cost a nickel and
you could go to a movie for $0.25.
The feds got him eventually,
and he died in prison.
But no one ever found what
he did with his money.
I cock an eyebrow at her,
are you saying it's hidden in your house?
Nah, Barney would have sniffed it out.
He might have been part bloodhound, too.
But a lot of people say Tommy-Gun Ferguson
converted his fortune into gold and
stashed it somewhere on the island.
And if that's true, whoever finds
it is going to be filthy rich.
It's around this point that
a little switch flips in my head.
The dog murder I can sort of believe since
Barney one sounds like a total winner.
I can even swallow some of the gangster
stuff because prohibition was
a real thing back in the 20s and 30s.
But I call baloney at Tommy-Gun Ferguson
and his secret stash of gold.
I may be a newbie here and
I admit I was pretty sick when my father
brought me home to start treatment.
But this isn't my first
trip to center light.
Dad moved here three years
after the divorce and
I visit at least once a summer.
If the whole island was swarming with
shovel wielding treasure hunters
searching for buried treasure,
I'm pretty sure I would have noticed.
It isn't just Tommy-Gun Ferguson,
ZeeBee goes on.
This place used to be
crawling with gangsters.
Al Capone himself brought his
family here every summer.
He said it was vacation, but
a lot of unlucky people always happened
to get killed when he was around.
Elliot Ness came here too,
the famous lawman.
Where else could you keep an eye
on gangsters from New York,
Atlantic City, Miami, Chicago and
Detroit all in one place?
They even ate at the same restaurant,
Fanelli's on Main Street.
It's a Taco Bell now but
out by the drive-through,
there's still the original wall with
seven bullet holes from a machine gun.
There's this stain on the pavement.
They say it's salsa, but
don't you believe it.
Salsa washes away.
Blood never does.
I'll take you there.
I can't, I put in quickly.
I'm not supposed to leave the yard.
Doctor Sobel didn't actually warn me
not to run around the island looking at
gangster blood.
But I'm sure he would
have if he thought of it.
I mean when your trichinosis goes away,
she says.
Tuberculosis, I snap back.
Whatever, I can also
show you the lighthouse.
The gangsters used to
shoot out the beacon so
the cops couldn't see when
a shipment was coming ashore.
I think they tried to burn it
down a couple of times too.
It's not in the greatest shape.
And you’ve got to see Snitch’s Rock,
that was Tommy-Gun’s
favorite place to get rid of witnesses
before they could testify against him.
She goes on and on.
Who got shot here?
Who got arrested there?
Which truckload of booze
went out of control and
crashed into Our Lady of Temperance?
By this time, I'm not doubting
what she tells me anymore.
I'm 100% convinced that ZeeBee, Zarabeth,
whatever, is a certified nutcase.
Barney too tracks in slow circles
around her, wagging his cropped tail.
The faster her mouth goes,
the faster the tail wags.
And that's pretty fast,
I feel sorry for him.
He's such a cute little guy.
Fluffy was like that.
Not physically,
I think Fluffy was part schnauzer.
I mean that lovable.
A distant foghorn sounds,
a long mournful honk.
Well, that's me, she says suddenly.
I’m bug-eyed.
That's you?
My dad, he's a Canadian border officer.
When he heads in on the boat,
he always gives us a toot to
let us know he's on the way.
Don't worry, I'll be back tomorrow.
My first instinct is to say,
I won't be here tomorrow.
But who am I kidding?
Where else am I going to be?
And anyway, ZeeBee is already gone,
scrunched through the bushes,
her unappreciated dog at her heels.
