Olivia started to punch 911, then hesitated, remembering an incident the previous autumn. An extended family of hungry mice had invaded The Gingerbread House kitchen and settled down for the winter in brand-new sacks of flour and sugar. Spunky had heard them through the floor vents upstairs. It would be a shame to rouse the town’s limited police force, only to confront a band of unarmed mice. She’d never hear the end of it.

Olivia slid her feet from under the covers and into a pair of battered tennis shoes she used for slippers. Ears erect and ready for anything, Spunky hopped off the bed and trotted toward the bedroom door. His right-front paw, injured in puppyhood, twisted inward a bit, so he had a limp. Still, he moved as fast as any five-pound dog alive. He had no awareness of his size; he would protect Olivia to the death. She had no intention of allowing him to do so.

Using her firm alpha-dog voice, learned in puppy school, Olivia said, “Spunky, stay here and guard the inner sanctum.”

At the word “stay,” Spunky tilted his head sideways. A curtain of silky hair fell across his face, covering one eye. The other eye pleaded for a chance to do battle for her. Olivia reached down to smooth the hair back over his head.

“Nice try,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” She cracked open the bedroom door enough to squeeze through sideways, blocking Spunky with her foot, then snapped the door shut behind her. Spunky had a frightening habit of exploding through doorways as if escape were his only salvation. A holdover from puppyhood.

In the hallway, a nightlight made from a cookie cutter cast a glowing teakettle shape on the wall. Olivia decided to leave the overhead light off, just in case, though she still hadn’t heard any alarming noises.