May 1, 1942

Tom Matsuoka wrestled the scuffed baseball away from Prince. "Good boy." He patted the shepherd’s head, then wound up again. THUMP. The ball hit the porch steps with a satisfying smack, then bounced halfway down the front walk. "Fetch!" Tom patted his glove and Prince trotted up to him, wagging his whole body, the soggy ball in his mouth. He dropped it in Tom’s glove. They’d played this game since Prince was a pup. Just thinking about it brought a baseball-sized lump to Tom’s throat. He quickly brushed his wet eyes, wishing he could brush away everything that had happened since Pearl Harbor as easily.

"Mrs. McLean will take good care of him." Mom’s soft voice reached out like a hug. "We’ll be back home soon. All of us. Your father, too."

Tom thought of Pop. And how he said being a man meant doing hard things sometimes. But Tom was only 11; hardly a man. Besides, since the bombing of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, there had been too many hard things. Like the night, four months ago, when FBI agents had taken Pop away, in his pajamas. He would never forget the slap-slap of his father’s slippers down the front steps. He hadn’t seen his father since.

"You need to finish packing." Mom brought Tom back. "There’s not much time left."

Tom followed her into the house, Prince at his heels.

A duffle-bag sat on Tom’s bed. Prince flopped on the floor, and Tom began to pack. This was another hard thing. General DeWitt’s order said they could only take what they could carry.

Tom had watched Mom fill up one suitcase with sheets and dried plums and family photos. His sister, Ruthie, stuffed her yellow duffle with records, a dried up corsage from her homecoming date, and a bunch of girly stuff.

Mom left a list for Tom: "Pack two pairs of pajamas, underwear and socks, even some wool ones. It may be cold where we’re going."

They’d taken family trips before and, with Pop at the wheel, they always knew exactly where they were going. He’d pour over maps planning every mile. Now, all they knew was that by noon today they’d be taken to an assembly center called Camp Harmony. Some joke, that name. They didn’t know anything about where they’d end up.

The duffle was getting full. Tom tucked his baseball into the pocket of his glove, then wedged it under some dungarees. He hoped some other kids were doing the same thing, so there could at least be baseball wherever they were going. It would be nice for something to be normal. Nothing had been since that day in December. "The day that would live in infamy," President Roosevelt had called it.

It took both hands, but Tom got the bag zipped shut. He was in charge of carrying his duffle, as well as the box that held the family’s plates, knives, spoons, forks, cups and glasses. Even though only three of them were leaving together, Mom had packed four of everything.

Ruthie trudged up the stairs, red-eyed and sniffling. "Mom says it’s time." She held out Prince’s leash.

Tom stood there like the plaster garden gnome in the neighbor’s yard. He was sure if he took the leash, he would break into pieces.

Ruthie touched him lightly on the arm. "Do you want me to do it?"

He grabbed the leash, swallowing hard. "Here boy." Prince caught sight of the leash and wagged his tail. To him, leashes meant long walks and squirrels to chase. Prince didn’t know leashes could also mean good-bye.

The wind kicked up and clouds began to spit rain. But Tom couldn’t make himself cross the street to Mrs. McLean’s. Prince shook his collar as if to say, "Let’s get walking or go inside where it’s dry and warm."

"Come see the bed I’ve fixed up for him," Mrs. McLean called out her back door. "Make sure it’s okay."

She’d put an old blanket on the floor next to the stove. Prince’s favorite spot at home.

"It’s fine. Real fine." That baseball started to form again in Tom’s throat. "Thanks, Mrs. McLean. I mean it."

Mrs. McLean brushed her eyes with a corner of her apron. "I’ll write you," she said. "Prince and I will write to you."

Prince wagged his tail at the bone Tom tossed him. "Better let him chew it outside," Tom said. "He’ll make a mess."

Then he turned and ran home.

Pastor Thomson had arrived to drive Tom’s family to the pick-up point. The whole time they loaded up the car, Tom could hear Prince barking and howling across the street.

He hopped in the car and slammed the door tight.

The windows were no defense. Each bark pounded Tom like a punch. He leaned forward on the seat, holding his stomach. Ruthie got in the back with him. "Here." She offered him a peppermint.

Pastor Thomson slid behind the steering wheel. He turned the key in the ignition. He waited.

Mom stood outside the car, one hand on the passenger door, one hand on her heart.

Finally, she opened the door and got in. Pastor Thomson eased away from the curb. The engine rumbled, but it wasn’t loud enough to block out the sound of mournful howls.

Tom, Ruthie, and Mom all stared ahead, silent. Pastor Thomson checked his rearview mirror now and again.

Hundreds of people waited at the pick-up point. Babies cried, mothers shouted for their kids to come back, old men smoked cigarettes.

Tom looked past the crowd at the convoy of army trucks, canvas tops darkened with rain.

Pastor Thomson shook their hands. When he got to Mom, he put both of his hands around hers. "We’ll be praying for you, Fumiko. And for Enji."

A soldier carrying a bayoneted rifle marched up to them. Raindrops pinged against his helmet. "This way folks."

Tom helped Mom and Ruthie climb into the truck, then he pulled himself up on the tailgate. Before he got his footing, something furry leapt past and knocked him into the truck bed.

"Prince!" Tom threw his arms around his dog’s neck.

Ruthie stroked Prince’s ears. Mom’s eyes darted between Tom, Prince, and the soldier.

"Okay, folks. He’s gotta come out of there." The soldier held a rifle in his right hand and reached for Prince with his left. Prince bared his teeth and growled.

"No, boy!" Prince never growled at anyone. Not even the mailman.

The soldier called for three buddies to come over. No matter what they tried, Prince wouldn’t budge.

One of the new soldiers — he had brown eyes — looked at Tom. "I’m sorry, kid," said Brown Eyes. "But you’ll have to get him out of there."

This soldier really sounded sorry, not like the guy with the bayonet whose face was now beet red with anger.

"Can’t I take him?" Tom gripped Prince’s neck tighter.

Brown Eyes looked away.

"You know the rules," the soldier with the bayonet snapped. "No pets. Now get that mutt out of there."

Shaking, Tom tugged at Prince’s collar, but the dog dug in.

"Hurry it up!" The soldier barked at Tom again. "We’ve got to get going."

Tom didn’t want to get going. He didn’t want to leave his home, go in this truck. Not without Pop. Not without Prince.

Mom touched her hand to her heart and gave a small nod. "Be brave," she was saying. And Pop’s words came to him again, too.

Tom hugged Prince, smelling his good doggy-smell, letting Prince lick his face. Then he took a deep breath. Tom unzipped his duffel and fished out his baseball glove. He rolled the ball in his hand, one last time, so he wouldn’t forget the feel.

"Look, boy!" Tom waved the ball, wound up, and threw. "Fetch!"

Prince leaped out of the truck, happily running after the ball.

The soldier with the bayonet lifted the tailgate and banged three times on the side of the truck, signaling the driver to pull away.

Tom was still watching out the back of the truck as Mrs. McLean ran up, Prince’s leash in her hand. He watched as she snapped the leash on his collar. Tom nearly broke down right there, right in the truck, right in front of all those people.

"Kid!" A voice rang out. It was Brown Eyes, looking directly at Tom. The young soldier snapped to attention. Then his hand lifted crisply to his forehead in a salute.

Tom nodded. He thumped his fist in his baseball glove. Then he sat down between his mother and his sister for the long, bumpy ride.