Runaway (Starlight Animal Rescue)($6.51Value)

Description

A new series by Dandi Daley Mackall, author of the best-selling Winnie the Horse Gentler series! I've run away seven times―never once to anything, just away from. Maybe that's why they call me a “runaway,” and not a “run-to.” Meet 16-year-old Dakota Brown. She used to love all things “horse” until she lost everything, including hope. The minute she sets foot on her foster parents' farm―Starlight Animal Rescue―she plans her escape. But can an “impossible” horse named Blackfire and this quirky collection of animal lovers be the home she's always dreamed of? Starlight Animal Rescue: Where problem horses are trained and loved, where abandoned dogs become heroes, where stray cats become loyal companions. And where people with nowhere to fit in find a place to belong. Dandi Daley Mackall grew up with horses and has never lost her love for animals. She handwrote her first book as a missionary in communist Eastern Europe. Now, she's the award-winning author of over five hundred books for all ages, including the Winnie the Horse Gentler, Starlight Animal Rescue, and Barnyard Blessings series. Dandi is a national speaker and frequent guest on radio, TV, and podcasts. She writes from rural Ohio, surrounded by family and a host of unusual animals. Visit Dandi at Dandibooks.com and Facebook.com/dandi.mackall. Runaway By DANDI DALEY MACKALL Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. Copyright © 2008 Dandi Daley Mackall All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4143-1268-2 Chapter One Wherever We're going, I won't be staying. That much I can promise. I've run away seven times-never once to anything, just away from . Maybe that's why they call me a "runaway" and not a "run-to." The way I figure it, these "ideal placements" by Chicago's social services never add up to much. And anyway, so far, my life has been subtraction. Two parents and a brother and me. Take away one brother, and that leaves two parents and me. Take away one parent, and that leaves one parent and me. Take away another parent, and that leaves me, Dakota Brown, age almost 16, trying not to wonder what it will be like when I'm the one taken away. Bouncing in the backseat of the social worker's car-the front seat has too many papers and folders about me to fit the real me in it-I decide it's time for a list. I love lists. You can take a mess like Ms. Social Worker has going for her in the front seat and, in a few minutes, turn it into a list that fits on a single sheet of paper. Lists bring things under control. My control. I take my list-book out of my backpack and turn to a clean page. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I catch the frown of concentration on the social worker's face. She's too busy trying to get us out of Chicago traffic to worry about what I'm doing in the backseat. I know her name is Ms. Bean, but in my head I keep thinking of her as "the social worker" because things are easier that way. She's not a bad person, and I'm not trying to get her into trouble or anything. But because I'm so good at what I do-running away-I'm bound to make her look pretty lousy at what she does. She thinks she's driving me to my new foster family, where I'll live happily ever after and forever be a pleasant anecdote for her to share with friends and family and future fosters everywhere. Poor Ms. Social Worker. She is doomed to fail. The State of Illinois has not invented a foster family from which I, Dakota Brown, cannot escape. In my list-book, I form an action plan. The Plan: A. Pay attention to the route leading to my new location. It is also my route out. B. Control reaction to new setting. It's important that the social worker believes I like my new digs. C. Headache. This will be my medical weapon of choice, the only complaint I'll voice, my one excuse to get out of whatever needs getting out of. D. Observe. Knowledge is power. E. Never cry. At least, never let them see you cry. F. Never get angry. (Yeah, right.) Don't let them see the anger. G. Never "confide," as the social worker likes to call it. H. Be friendly, but do not make friends. "Dakota, what are you writing?" Ms. Bean asks. "Sorry." I close my list-book and flash a smile to the rearview mirror. "Don't be sorry," she says, smiling back at the mirror. This action makes her come up too fast on the little sports car in front of us. "Ms. Bean!" I shout. She slams on the brakes, forcing the car behind us to do the same. Horns honk. "I hate traffic," she admits. I wonder how she ended up in Chicago when she hates traffic so much. But I don't ask. My mind reaffixes the Ms. Social Worker label, and I stare out the window. Ms. Bean is not the clichd social worker. She's a stylish, 24-year-old college graduate with light red hair, funky earrings, and clothes I wouldn't mind wearing myself. I know she's engaged. But other than the fact that she's a lousy driver, I don't know much else about her. That's the way I like it. I lean back and close my