“My name is Ivy Moon,” I say to Tonka. He stares at me with dark, intense eyes. Biding his time. Waiting for me to make a move. “It’s the name I’ve given myself. The kitchen calendar has all the dates in September marked off except for the thirtieth, so I think it’s today’s date. It’s a Celtic Tree Calendar, and it shows today is the first day of the Ivy Moon. I can’t remember my real name, so I’m going with that. Do you like it?”

Tonka shifts his weight from one side to the other, unimpressed. His eyes glance at my hands like he’s expecting me to use sign language. But I don’t know sign language. I don’t even know how old I am.

“Maybe fifteen,” I say, as though he’d asked. “Maybe sixteen. I feel sixteen, but it’s only a guess. There’s no way to know for sure.”

Tonka cuts me a look that says, “That’s nice, but who cares?” Then sits on the floor, waiting.

 “But I’m getting ahead of myself. A good story should start at the beginning, so…

“My first memory is of this morning. The pungent odors of mold and mildew assaulted my nose, and when I opened my eyes, I found myself on the cabin floor of the sailboat outside your house. I must have rolled out of the berth when the boat listed against the steps. Faint light was shining through the portholes, so it was hard to see. There was an irregular clanging sound, like a bell ringing in the distance. Familiar yet out of place. Curious and confused, I found my way to the hatchway to go on deck.

“The boat was listing to the starboard side, making the hatch difficult to open. When I managed to lock it in place, I crawled outside to see the world for the first time. That’s when my life began.

“Dark, heavy clouds blanketed the sky and a gale-force wind wailed around me. The only sound I could hear above the constant howl was the halyard banging against the aluminum mast like a dinner bell…the source of the familiar sound.

“How do I know what a halyard is? Or the difference between starboard and port? I don’t know. I have no memories of sailing. I can’t remember any personal details about myself. I’m a newborn with no past, only awareness. But more about that in a minute.

“To the portside lay an open expanse of cattails, a marsh, flooded by the waning storm. The receding floodwaters…heavy with earthy marshland scents…reached halfway up the stalks. Their brown oblong heads had only recently emerged from the water. At the flood’s peak, the tall grass stalks were completely covered by water.

“When I turned to look at the starboard side, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The boat was resting against a house! Well, not against the house, exactly. It was a wide, steep set of steps leading up to an elevated back porch. One banister was so close I could have leaned out over the deck’s lifeline and touched it.

“The house…which sits atop tall pylons…still had two or three feet of water underneath it. The boat had followed the stair’s banisters down as the water receded. When the hull hit bottom, the boat began leaning toward the house. That’s why I fell out of the berth.”

Tonka looks at me with a blank expression, which I take to be disbelief.

“Scared? Of course,” I say, louder than I intended. “To be honest, I was on the verge of panic. But then a voice spoke to me. You know, from inside. It kept saying, ‘Everything will be all right…you can work it out.’ I figured, if a voice in my head believes in me, who am I to argue? So, taking a deep breath, I climbed off the boat onto the steps. Bad move!

“The effort made me dizzy just as a big gust of wind hit me. I lost my balance and fell into the water. The outflowing current pulled me toward the open water. I swam as hard as I could, but made no headway. If I didn’t make it back, I was certain to drown.

“Again, I fought off the panic. I don’t know how I made it. The anchor line had broken free. Maybe I grabbed it and pulled myself in hand over hand. It’s all a blank to me because I passed out.

“The next thing I remember is being inside the screened porch at the top of the steps. The wind was still blowing like crazy and I struggled to gather myself. I sat up and looked around, hoping to spot someone or something that might help. I could see a house next door, but no lights or any signs of people. On the other side is a wooded lot and maybe a house beyond. It was impossible to tell. If so, it didn’t have lights either.

A big gust of wind buffets the house and the windows rattle. The Westie jumps up and growls.

“It’s OK,” I say, “It’s just the storm.”

Tonka growls again, then sits down, ready to hear the rest of my story.

“At least it’s good to know I’m in some kind of neighborhood,” I continue. “The power is out, so I’m sure people are hunkered down in their homes. Or maybe they evacuated before the storm. If so, they’re sure to return once the weather clears. I’ll just stay here until then.

“Anyway, as I was saying, having caught my breath, I began checking out the house. I knocked on one of the glass doors to the porch, hoping someone might be home despite it being dark inside. No one answered, so I knocked again just to be safe.

“That’s when you ran into the room, barking and growling. Your message was clear. ‘This is my home and I will defend it to the death!’

“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, and I admire your bravery, but Westies aren’t the most terrifying breed of dogs, you know? So, I tested the door and found it wasn’t locked. When I stepped inside, you stopped barking and sniffed my ankles. You knew right away I wasn’t a threat. Still, you dodged your head when I tried to pet you. I don’t know if there is any bite to go with your bark, but I’m glad you allowed me inside.”

Tonka stretches out on the floor, rests his head on his front paws, and yawns. We’ve both had a long day.

“I called out to see if anyone was home, but no one answered. You poked me with your paw as though saying, ‘I’m right here, dummy.’ So, I bent over to try petting you again and saw the name tag on your collar. TONKA. Like the toys, right? ‘Be Tonka tough!’ It fits you to a T. No pun intended.

“I was still bending over when a spot of blood appeared on your white fur. I thought you had been wounded and were bleeding. Then another drop appeared next to the first one. It was like you had been hit by a tiny paintball. Only then did I realize it was me who was injured, not you!

“I reached for my temple and felt thick, warm blood seeping from a crusty wound I didn’t realize I had. Applying pressure to the wound with my hand like a good Girl Scout…am I a Scout?…I hurried to the bathroom and found some gauze.

“I didn’t look at my face in the mirror while washing my temple and applying the bandage. I can’t say why. Maybe I just don’t want to see my face. Maybe I have a desire to believe I’m beautiful, but fear the truth. Or maybe mean people have said hurtful things because I’m hideous and it’s too painful to look. Perhaps it’s because I know I’m beautiful inside and that’s what truly matters. It’s the echo of a truth I’ve been told all my life. But by who, I can’t remember.

“Anyway, I stopped the bleeding and looked out the front window to learn more about where I am. Your house is on a cul-de-sac with two other homes across the street. They’re dark and lifeless, too. The water was still waist deep and moving out with the force of a rip tide. Once the water recedes, I’ll find out if any people are there.

“In the meantime, I began exploring your home. Not to be nosy, but to find food and something to drink and anything else I might need. You followed me to each room, making sure I behaved as a proper guest. The top level has two bedrooms, a bath and a landing that forms a loft looking down into the great room. The lower level where the porch is has a master bedroom, bath, kitchen, pantry and great room. It’s a small but nice house. Whoever lives here has taken good care of it and I’ll keep it clean as long as I stay. People will return tomorrow and they can tell me who I am, right?

“Famished, I went to the refrigerator to find something to eat. I figured if the power had been out for only a few hours, the food inside would still be good. Better to eat it before it goes bad and save the food in the pantry for later, right?

“When I opened the door…surprise! The light came on. A moment later, its compressor motor kicked in. It makes so little noise it’s easy to see how I had missed it. Curious, I flipped the switch for the kitchen’s overhead light. Nothing. I flipped another. Still nothing.

“Your house must have an alternative power source, but provides only enough electricity for essentials like the fridge. Still starving, I decided to figure it out later and treated myself to a ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of milk. I let you have a leftover hot dog. Please, don’t ever tell the dog nutrition Nazis I did that.”

The Westie blinks and I swear he smiles at me. Our pact sealed, his eyelids droop, triggering a switch inside me I can’t resist. I’m exhausted and my stomach is full.

“You know what?” I say, realizing I’m too tired to experiment with the power setup. “Figuring out how many appliances can run without overloading the circuit can wait until tomorrow. Right now, I have to sleep.”

Unconcerned, Tonka rises long enough to walk over to his doggy bed next to the unpowered TV and lies down.

“We’ll be OK until someone comes back for you,” I say. “In the meantime, there’s plenty to drink, plenty of food in the refrigerator, and plenty of your food in the pantry. We just need a good night’s sleep. Everything will look brighter in the morning. I promise.”

But the dog named after tough old toys was already asleep. I smile and count my blessings, such as they are. Retelling the day’s events has given me perspective and a feeling everything truly will be OK.

I’m ready for bed, too, but I don’t want to sleep in the homeowners’ bed. I mean, who wants to use somebody else’s funky sheets? Yuck! So, I find a blanket and lie on the couch in the great room with all the windows. It makes sense to stay on the first level in case the owners return. The wind is still howling like crazy, so there’s no way I’ll hear anybody coming.

I’m almost asleep when Tonka startles me, jumping onto the end of the couch where my feet rest. He blinks at me and somehow, I know he’s saying, “I think you’re OK, so give me some room.”

I’m glad for the company.