Moonlight was shining through the big window. Such a beautiful night, but the boy couldn't care less. He had tip-toed out of his room and crept down the stairs, careful not to wake anyone. He put his small fingers up against the frosted window pane, taking in the coolness of the glass. He watched the night pass by, not noticing the hours chime away on the old clock in the hall. He sniffled, trying to hold back tears. He'd been crying for too many nights. He leaned his hot cheek on the window. He was still taking in the fact that Andy was gone. A tear escaped his eye, but he caught it hastily. He swallowed, trying to push down the lump in his throat. It hurt.

"Chucky? What are you doing still up?" He jumped at Mrs. Barclay's voice. "I... I couldn't sleep," he whispered hoarsely. Karen frowned; he had gotten a sudden raging fever a few days after the news. His voice still sounded raw and painful. She saw him still looking out the window longingly. She sighed and put her hands on his shoulders. "I know," she said softly. "Sometimes, I look out there, and I hope the same thing. I keep wishing that someday, sometime, I'll look out this window and see him. That I'll see my baby come home, alive and well." The boy said nothing, but she knew he understood. "Don't stay up too late, okay?" she said. "It's not good for you." He nodded, but he didn't move from his position.

She climbed back up the stairs, but not before mentioning that maybe reading a good book or two would help. "Maggie's got some old classics on the book shelf here," she had said. The boy turned to look at them. He remembered reading in school, a long time ago. He also remembered a six year old boy, with soft brown eyes, reading to him. He shuffled over to the shelf, his eyes sifting through the books until he found one whose title caught his eye. It had a collie dog on the cover, by Eric Knight. Taking it with him, he curled back up against the window, opened the book, and began to read:

"Everyone in Greenall Bridge knew Sam Carraclough's Lassie. In fact, you might say that she was the best known dog in the village- and for three reasons. First, because nearly every man in the village agreed she was the finest collie he had ever laid eyes on..."

They were not allowed to touch him, the man of the enemy. The boys didn't care less. But the girls would stop when they passed by, twirl their hair and giggle nervously to one another about the handsome stranger from the other side. He was not like the rumors they'd heard about the enemy. He was quiet, and he smiled, even from behind the bars. But there was talk about him. The soldiers said he had survived the fires of hell. That when the ground shook and cracked, and when the sky went dark, he had come out alive. He was dangerous, and that was why he had to be kept where he was.

Still, that was hard to believe when he had a kind face. Not to mention an attractive one.

"The boy stared at his plate, unmoving.
'Come on Joe. Eat your bread and butter. Look-nice new bread, I just baked today. Don't ye want it?'
The boy bent his head lower.
'I don't want any,' he said in a whisper... 'I only want- Lassie!'"

He was not eating very well. Karen and Maggie worried. "Come on, Chucky, you can't waste away," Maggie said kindly. "The little Sarah's are enjoying the food, aren't you girls?" The little ones nodded their heads eagerly. "Yes! Green beans are my favorite!" one piped. The other elbowed her. "They're kind of nasty, Sarah!" she said. "The meatloaf is better! Especially with pepper..." They made a grab for the pepper shaker and squabbled over it until Karen made them share.

The boy didn't say anything. He just moved his food around his plate with his fork.

"...Priscilla saw, lying there, a great black-white-and-golden-sable collie. It lay with its head across its front paws, the delicate darkness of the aristocratic head showing plainly against the snow-whitness of the expansive ruff and apron...Priscilla bent down and, clapping her hands, called quickly: 'Come collie, Come over here! Come see me! Come!' For just one second the great brown eyes of the collie turned to the girl, deep brown eyes that seemed full of brooding and sadness. Then they turned back to mere empty staring..."

There was a little girl in the village. She chatted happily with the prisoner. While most parents would have discouraged her, hers did not. They noticed some difference about the stranger. He had kind eyes. Brown, like theirs, but in the sun, they shone with gold, like an angel's. He smiled pleasantly, even in his small imprisoned cell, and dealt with the humiliation and hatred of the villagers as if it were simple play. As much as they were told that he was horrid, they wouldn't believe it. No unkind human would treat their daughter as he did. He laughed at what she said, and spoke back, and although neither could understand the other, they had a bond. And there was something to be said about that.

The father did not like the way the guards treated him. His wife wanted to get him out. "He probably child of his own," she said. "Look at how he treats our daughter. Like his own." Jesse nodded grimly. It would be hard, to get him out. It would cost them much. But it was the right thing to do. And their daughter would want him to be free. She already did, asking them why her friend was not allowed to play with her outside.

So, one night, they snuck him out. They knew from his face that he was thanking them, but they hurried him out of the village. They offered him a ride, but he shook his head. Then he was gone. To home, wherever that was.

"...The rain and the splashed earth now made the beautiful expanse of her coat tarnished and spotted. But she kept going steadily, going to the south. For the next four days, Lassie traveled without pause, resting only briefly during the nights. The urge to travel south burned in her like a fever, and nothing could replace it. On the fifth day a new demand began to gnaw at her senses. It was the call of hunger. The command to travel had blotted it out at first, but now it was insistent... her senses were drawn to something else-the warm blood smell of the rabbit that lay on the path. For a long time she regarded it. She came nearer, bending her head warily, as if ready to spring away. For, though the blood smell of food was there, the scent of the weasel lingered, too. Carefully her nose came nearer and nearer until it touched the freshly killed quarry. She drew back and walked around it. Then she came near, bent her head, and picked up the game. She lifted her head again and waited... After that she had a newly acquired sense. She had learned the smell of rabbit. Instinct told her the rest. As she traveled along, whenever her keen nose told her of the nearness of game, she became a hunter. She scouted and ran and caught it, and she ate. It was the sensible law of nature. She did not kill wantonly as man often does. She killed to live, and no more... And the heart was gallant, and the instinct was true. And so the dog went, day after day, steadily south in the Highlands, over braken and heather, through the hill-land and plain, through stream and woodland-ever going steadily, always south..."

It was raining again. The man with the angel eyes watched the water fall from the sky. Holding his arms against his broad chest, he knew that was the least of his worries. He had been walking for days, not knowing exactly where he was, with no one nearby or in sight. To make things worse, he was hungry. He was beginning to feel his stomach gnaw at him. He tried to ignore it, but it only worsened as the hours dragged by.

He had a gun. He had never tried to hunt before, but it would seem that now it was necessary. Trying his best to sneak on game, he finally caught a small rabbit. Silently he apologized to it, feeling terrible for eating a baby. Then he skinned it and set up a fire to cook it, and ate it, feeling replenished.

He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he had to keep walking. He had to get home. There were people waiting for him, and he had promised he would be home. Not the wind, the rain, or his hunger would stop him. He had made a promise, no matter what. And he would keep that promise.

"...Lassie trotted from a thicket and came to the shore. She was moving more slowly now, for the pads of her feet were bruised and sore, and in the delicate membrane between those pads on the right a thorn was festering. Nor was her head as high now, and there was less confidence in her way of going.
"Often, at times, it seemed as if she had forgotten why she was on her endless journey. But this was never for long, and now her pace became steady again, and she quickened it, carrying herself so that her afflicted paw took less weight..."

He had twisted his ankle. It burned, but there was nothing he could do. The guards had taken his medicine bag when they had taken him as a prisoner. He flinched with pain each time he took a step, and it made his wandering all the harder. Sometimes, he'd sit for longer than usual during the day, and rested for many more hours that he planned. Worse, sometimes he'd just want to lay there until he had wasted away. He was tired of wandering, paining his ankle to the brink of breaking, and still being just as lost at the end of the day. But there were blue eyes on his mind, blue eyes that he had made promises too. And so he knew that he must not give up, that he had to keep on going, until he found them, those eyes that hoped and needed so much.

He had seen lights up ahead through the trees. He coughed blood into his hand, then wiped it away. He had no time to deal with that now. He would deal with it when he found a place to rest. But it was more serious than he had thought it was, and it was getting dark. He kept following the lights until he came upon a town, but just as he stumbled across the friendly sign that welcomed newcomers, he slumped against an old building and closed his eyes.

Hours passed, and he didn't open them again.

"...'Go easy Dan, now," she said. "Oh, puir, puir thing!" She ran ahead of him to open the door. Panting, the old man struggled in. The door slammed the two old people brought Lassie into the warmth of the hearth and laid her on the rug. They stood back a moment, looking at her. Lassie lay with her eyes closed. 'I doubt it'll live till the morn,' the man said..."

"Do you suppose we should call the medic?" she was asking. Her husband grabbed her arm. "Look, he's moving." She turned her eyes on him, and saw that, indeed, he was moving. He opened his eyes and blinked quickly, taking in the light. "Quick, get some blankets, Jesse," she said. Then she put a hand on the man's arm. "Hello? Are you conscious?" she asked. The stranger looked around himself and took in his surroundings. "Where am I?" he spoke groggily. "You're in Benbrook, Texas. You lost? We found you, passed out. We brought you here, Jesse and I..."
"You making him dizzier, Jayde?" a man's voice called. The stranger looked up towards the voice. He was carrying thick blankets. "No," the stranger said. "I can't stay. I have to go. I've got to get home." The woman, Jayde, hushed him. "Nonsense," she said. "Not in the state you're in. You'll get fixed up before you go anywhere."

He opened his mouth to argue, then decided against it. He was terribly dizzy.

"For a second, the old woman wished to call- to call the the dog back to her and try again to wean its mind from old memories. But she was too honest. She lifted her head, and her aged voice came clearly. 'It's all richt then, dog. If ye must go- awa' wi' ye.'"

It was a week later when they finally let him go. "Thank you," he told them. "I am grateful. You understand, though, that I have to leave. Someone is waiting for me." They nodded, and embraced him good-bye before watching him board a bus. "How romantic," Jayde muttered. "What?" Jesse asked. "If you got lost in a war, would you come home to find me, no matter what?" she asked. He smiled and placed a kiss on her forehead. "Of course," he said softly. "Of course."

"...She knew that at last the terrible driving instinct was at peace. She was at the place. She had kept her lifelong rendevous..."