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

"That's what Ruth calls him."

Sister Helena could not help but be moved. "Is that how she sees herself too?"

"In a way, they're all onlies here," Louisa said quietly.

Sister Helena sighed. "Sister, I simply can't establish the precedent of an individual child owning a dog. What if another stray shows up? What if a cat has kittens on our doorstep?"

"He could be the Home's mascot," Louisa suggested, "belonging to all the girls, not any one. I'm told that even at Kalaupapa, there was a kind of mascot at Bishop Home. I believe he was called 'Denis the pig' and he used to sun himself in the front yard."

Sister Helena rolled her eyes. "'Denis' was actually a huge boar—so huge, according to Mother Marianne, God rest her soul, that he sunned himself wherever he pleased.

"Sister, we don't know anything about this animal. He could have rabies. He could bite one of the girls. I can't risk that. I'm sorry. Truly I am."

"This will be … very hard on Ruth," Louisa said.

"She's only four. She won't even remember this dog in two years."

Louisa had run out of arguments. "Thank you, Sister. May I—allow Ruth to say goodbye to him?"

"I think that would only make things worse, don't you?"

Louisa nodded her obeisance without actually agreeing, then went to crush Ruth's fondest desire.

Ruth didn't understand why Only had to leave. But she knew he would be back—as indeed he was the very next evening. Ruth had hidden half of her fish and rice from supper in a handkerchief and lay in bed expectantly until she heard the familiar whimper outside. She jumped out of bed, hurried into the corridor and toward the back door—

When she heard Sister Lu say "Ruth," she froze on the spot.

The sister squatted in front of her. She held out her hand. "Give me the food," she said gently.

"But he's hungry!"

"He'll find someone else to feed him. Dogs usually do."

"But he's my dog!"

"No he's not. I'm sorry, Ruth. Give me the food."

Ruth slowly handed her the soggy bundle.

"Thank you. Now go back to bed."

"Can't I go look at him?"

"It's better you didn't."

Louisa escorted Ruth back to her bed, where Ruth immediately buried her head in a pillow and refused to acknowledge the sister's "good night."

Ruth listened for an hour to the dog's whines, all the while sobbing to herself. Finally it stopped, and Ruth fell into a troubled sleep.

Supper the next day was Portuguese bean soup, and the only thing Ruth could abscond with was a piece of cornbread. She stuffed it into her pocket, not caring that it began to crumble almost immediately. No matter: Sister Bonaventure, alert to the situation, confiscated the bread at the door.

Later that evening, the dog's cries returned. Not caring whether she woke anyone up, Ruth ran out of the dorm and into the classroom from which she had first seen her friend. She looked out the window.

Only sat on the side of the road, whimpering. She gazed at him—his light brown fur painted black by the night, the amber circles in his eyes flashing briefly as he turned his head. Ruth listened helplessly to his cries, feeling a grief and sorrow and anger unlike anything she had ever known. But she cherished every second she could still see him, until finally his cries stopped, his silhouette merged with that of the noni bush, and he was gone.

The next night there was only silence outside, and that—that was so much worse. Ruth cried into her pillow until she found another use for it and began punching it furiously, bam bam bam, then holding it by the ends and smashing it against the wall again and again.

Suddenly Sister Louisa was there, taking the pillow away from her. "Ruth, stop, please," she said. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I hate you!" Ruth screamed at her. "Go away!"

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.