Excerpt from Daughter of Moloka'i by Alan Brennert, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Good dog!" She tore off a chunk of sandwich and offered it on the palm of her hand. His tongue ladled it up and into his mouth, and Ruth giggled at the pleasant tickle of it on her skin. She tore off another chunk and he wolfed that down too, then another, until the sandwich was gone and he was licking the last crumbs of bread from her palm.

She was petting him when she suddenly heard the sound of a door opening, followed by footsteps. She turned quickly. Benediction was over, and the sisters and older girls were leaving the chapel.

Skittish, the dog sprang to his feet and ran away down the road.

Ruth watched, disappointed, as he seemed to melt away into the darkness; but her palm was still wet from his tongue, a nice feeling.

Before anyone could see her, she hurried back into the Home. She went to bed thinking happily of her new friend.

All day she stole glances out the windows, but there was no sign of the dog. At dinner she was careful not to eat all of her chicken and mashed potatoes, but squirreled away the remainder into her napkin and stuffed it into the pocket of her dress.

At bedtime Ruth hid the napkin under her blanket as she changed into her pajamas, then slid under the covers. When the air became heavy with the rhythmic breathing of sleeping girls, Ruth took the napkin filled with food and went into the washroom. Above a toilet stall was a single window, lit faintly by moonlight. Ruth climbed onto the toilet seat, then up onto the back of the toilet, and quietly pushed up the window as high as she could.

She heard a familiar whimper. Eagerly she climbed up onto the windowsill, swung her legs over the edge, and jumped out, landing in the garden below. She hurried around the building to find her new friend waiting patiently for her on the side of the road.

As soon as he saw her, his tail began happily thumping the ground.

He gulped down the chicken and potatoes while Ruth stroked his back: "Good doggie." When his slobbery tongue darted out to lick her face, she giggled. Finally he rolled over on his side and closed his eyes. Ruth nestled beside him, face to face, draping an arm across his torso. Their chests touched and she felt the comforting warmth of his body. She felt his heart beating, and for a moment it felt as though their heartbeats were one and the same. Because they were the same. He was alone. She was alone. They needed each other.

And he needed a name. She'd been thinking of one and now whispered it into his ear, which twitched noncommittally at the suggestion. Ruth closed her eyes, enjoying the softness of his fur, their shared contentment. She wanted to stay like this, warm and loved, forever.

In minutes she was asleep.

"Ruth."

Suddenly an earthquake threw her dreams into disarray. She woke to find that the upheaval was the dog bolting upright beside her. She looked up and saw Sister Lu gazing worriedly down at her. "Ruth, what—"

The dog fled into the night. She told herself that was all right—he came back before, didn't he?

Sister Lu squatted down beside her. "Are you all right, Ruth? Are you cold?"

Ruth just shook her head.

"No," she said. "He kept me warm."

Louisa stood before Sister Helena, summoning every ounce of persuasion as she pled Ruth's case: "Mr. Kaohi rounded the dog up; it appears to be a stray. We've checked with all the neighbors and no one knows him. He's malnourished, mangy—"

"But retains all his working parts," Sister Helena noted wryly.

"That can always be fixed." Louisa always felt intimidated by Sister Helena, even though the sister wore her authority gently. "He is a sweet dog, and looks like he could use a home. And Ruth—Ruth needs something like this. Something she can care for. And you must admit, she was very resourceful in finding something for Only to eat."

"'He has a name?" Sister Helena asked. Then, realizing what she had just heard: "'Only'?"

Excerpted from Daughter of Moloka'i by Alan Brennert. Copyright © 2019 by Alan Brennert. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.