Missy's low whine came to Robert in a dream. He woke with a start and took a moment to remember where he was. There was a faint smell of last night's dinner, and he could make out the contours of the caravan. The whine built to a yelp. Robert swung his legs over the side of the bed and whispered to her. She was shuddering at the possibility of the open door, scraping at the linoleum and hitting the oven with her tail. Robert checked his watch – three am. Missy was like clockwork. He felt the pressure in his own bladder and decided not to bother with the lead; there would be no-one out at this time.

The night air was mild, and Robert could hear the sea on the other side of the forest. The slip of a moon cast enough light on the path between the motorhomes for he and Missy to find the back gate. Usually, he stood at the edge of the path and let Missy do her business, then he crawled back into bed. Tonight, he kept walking. In his dream he had been flying. The feeling of soaring carried him further, like an anaesthetic for the fear that kept him close. He did not take the small, winding forest track. He and Sue never took those. “You don’t know where you are on those paths,” was his wife’s daily mantra. Instead, he followed the dirt road until he reached the cove where the sea sucked pebbles like wine through a sommelier’s teeth.

He was giddy from the thought of being alone on the shore. No sunbathers, no families sheltering their babies beneath umbrellas and no nudists. It’s not that he judged them. Fair play for having the confidence to lie there with no clothes on or stand exposed in the shallows. It probably felt quite pleasant to wade into the water with none of the spandex that makes swimwear so uncomfortable. Robert just did not know where to look. It was never the ones he expected, either. The French couple, for example, they were older than he and Sue with broad waistlines and sagging bits. He walked past them a few days ago on the sandy beach. They were fast asleep beside the rocks, lying on their fronts with their bottoms spilling onto the sand. They reminded him of basking seals, and he had to pull Missy back before she sniffed them.

Robert thought of Sue, curled into a comma beneath the bed clothes; this was her only pause in a day. She would be 70 next month and showed no sign of slowing down. By 8 o’clock that morning they would be on the trails of the Sierra De Irta, kicking red dust with their trainers and throwing sticks into the sea for Missy.

He couldn’t complain. Lis, from two pitches to their left, was still recovering from the drive from Antwerp. They barely saw her out of the motorhome, except a couple of hours in the morning when she walked to the lighthouse and back. Artur had her on one arm and Tom by the lead on the other.

“Missy?” Robert called.

She had been flitting in and out of the shadows, picking up stones, dropping them, jumping over the larger rocks then appearing again at his feet. He registered her disappearance the way he would have noticed silence when his children were playing; silence meant trouble. Missy did not return. Robert moved carefully, the rocks were terribly sharp, and the pebbles shifted beneath his feet like quicksand.

“Missy,” he said, louder this time. It wasn’t like her to ignore him.

A piercing yelp sounded from the woodland. Robert turned, his heart pounding. He had no torch, no phone and no way of defending himself against whatever dangers might lurk among the trees. He and Sue had seen wild boar feeders on the mountain full of honey-soaked corn. What if one of those tusked animals went for Missy? Would it attack him?

There it was again, a yelp, unmistakeably Missy. He found that he could not move, could not even call out for her. In fact, he groped around for a rock on which he might sit for a moment to catch his breath. This was the opposite of courage. He buried his face in his hands and wished he had stuck to his usual routine. Now, he was paralysed beside the sea with a belt of dense woodland between him and his caravan and Missy was in danger. He could hear Sue: ‘And what did you do?’ she would ask. It was the question she had levelled at him their entire married life.

Robert did not know then the repercussions for his inability to galvanise himself. If his future self could have reached through the years to speak to his quivering 65-year-old self, he might say the right words to get him going. He might shout, “Act now or your marriage is over”. He would also tell him that this is one of those turning points, a portal into an altered landscape from which you cannot come back.

In the moment, though, the decision to do nothing did not seem that bad. Robert imagined that when he recovered, when he plucked up the courage to turn away from the bright moon over the sea and find the road, Missy would burst out of the woodland. She would come to heel, walk to the caravan and settle on her blanket while he got into bed beside Sue without rousing her.

The rock beneath Robert pressed against his tail bone and he could taste the sea on his lips. The thing is – he began to craft his defence, addressing it to the waves beneath him – not everyone wants to tackle life head on as if it were series of scrums from which to wrestle a ball. Sue always loved a good sports metaphor, it was all those years teaching PE, trying to inspire teenagers. Getting things ‘over the line’ was a particular favourite. He imagined the conversation taking place on the camp chairs while she prepared the coffee. It would be whispered, of course, so no-one around them could eavesdrop. Sometimes – he would continue – one wants to be a spectator.

She might tell him that life is not a spectator sport or that he should get his head in the game. He pictured her doing the hand thing where she brings the side of one hand onto the flat palm of another to emphasise a point. Sometimes he wished there were warmer parts of her to which he might be drawn. An admission of insecurity, perhaps, or a joke at her expense. It would be easier to make mistakes.

There was nothing I could do, Robert continued, appealing to the water. We don’t take the forest paths; you don’t know where you are on a forest path. She could not disagree with that.

~

Stephanie gave Mona a feed and tucked her into the crook of Anton’s arm. Then, she snuck from the van to spend an hour watching the sun rise over the sea. It was already hot and the air was heady from the rosemary bushes beneath the pines. She inhaled deeply, savouring the quiet. The water was calm as she swam beyond the rocks to float on the surface. Huge drifts of swifts passed overhead, and, in that moment, she was weightless. The ocean formed a cohesive surface upon which she was buoyed. It was a wonderful feeling to be held rather than bearing others up.

She thought of her mother.

“Life with a young baby is hard enough without lugging her all over the world,” she said.

“She’s not a piece of baggage, mum.”

“And what will you feed her?”

Stephanie raised her eyebrows at that, not wanting to have another conversation about breastfeeding.

“I am sure they have bananas in Spain,” her mother added by way of apology.

 Stephanie allowed her legs to fall and began treading water. Just as she was forming an email to her mother about the joys of life on the road with Mona, she noticed a dog pacing the shoreline. It was walking all over her clothes, a growl building in its throat. She waited, scanning the rocks for its owner.

When Stephanie was 16, she was bitten by a dog. It was a large Doberman owned by her classmate and when the dog locked its jaw on Stephanie’s leg, her friend screamed about the blood then fainted. Now, when she sees a dog, she believes that it knows this about her, that it can sense her fear of it happening again.

“There is a dog bath in the ablution block,” she told Anton when they arrived at the campsite.

“That’s nice,” he said, distracted by the mechanism of Mona’s travel cot.

She stamped her foot. “No, Anton, it’s not. It’s ridiculous. There are dogs everywhere and now I have to watch people shampooing them when I’m brushing my teeth.”

“Keep your voice down,” he said, setting the cot down to take her by the shoulders. “Just ignore them.”

“I wish I could but they’re everywhere.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Yesterday, that man next door introduced me to his dog.”

Anton winced.

“I know. He raised its paw so I could shake it,” she hissed.

“And did you?” He was trying not to laugh.

“Of course not. It’s a big brute of a thing with a fringe and I swear it was as mortified as I was.”

Still treading water, Stephanie’s foot hit a rock, and the pain made her gasp. She felt the sting of salt water and struggled to catch her breath. The waves were pushing her towards the shore. She swam into deeper water – still the dog paced. It was growling now and dashing into the shallows to make itself heard. Who owned this animal and how could she get rid of it?

“It’s just a dog, Steph, it’s probably more scared of you,” Anton would say.

Then he would crouch beside it and let it have a good sniff. Animals loved him, children too for that matter. He seemed to know exactly what people needed to be at ease in his company – a joke here, a silly voice there, a hand extended so an animal could smell the good in him. Stephanie envied him. She was angular where he was soft and awkward in equal measures to his composure.

Her legs began to ache from the effort of staying afloat.

“Get out of here,” she shouted.

The dog reeled at the sound of her voice and started barking again. Stephanie recognised it then as the sheep dog cross something-or-other that belonged to the Englishman in the corner pitch. Molly or Meggy or…Missy, yes that was it. He walked it on a long, green lead, and if it did not have a stick in its mouth, it would bark at passers-by. There was no sign of the squat little owner.

Stephanie thought of Anton. He was probably putting the kettle on for coffee. She imagined their daughter, her little pink fingers clenched in a fist, her downy hair and the smell of milk on her breath. This image roused her. She swam until she could stand then bent to lift stones from the sea floor. Missy had a crazed look in her eye and appeared to be foaming at the mouth. Stephanie steadied herself then took aim. The first rock bounced on the shore, and it looked as if Missy meant to retrieve it. Stephanie paused.

“Go get it, Missy,” she said, forcing a strength into her voice she did not feel.

Missy cocked her head, considering, then launched herself into the shallows with renewed frenzy. Stephanie breathed deeply then lobbed another, heavier stone. The sound of it hitting the animal caused her to gasp. Missy staggered, made as if to bark again then collapsed in the water. Stephanie hesitated. She looked around to make sure she was alone, then walked a wide circle around the dog. Every step she took was soft and deliberate so as not to wake it. There was a slight movement in the dog's body as the waves lapped the shore, but she did not look directly at it. Missy existed in her peripheral vision, momentarily stunned, most likely asleep. Stephanie reached her clothes and shook the sand from them. The dog could waken at any time, she told herself, and it would be better if she was not here when it did.

~

Sebastián arrived at el colmenar early. There was a mist over the valley, and he could see a flat calm sea beyond it. He checked his watch. If he was efficient, there would be time for a swim. The pods on the algarrobo trees were abundant this year. They hung long and green, swollen from the recent heat; there would be carob flour to spare. He would tell his sons to invite their friends at harvest time. They could set up a grill on the veranda and cook fish like his father used to.

Sebastián allowed himself to daydream about the young men filling baskets with the hard, brown seed pods, calling to one another as they worked. He would be in the middle of the action, invisible, emptying the baskets when they were full, tending to the grill, opening bottles of beer. It was harder to find ways to spend time with his sons these days. Sebastián moved out of the shade of the algarrobo tree, confident that he could make his dream a reality.

Although it was only seven o’clock in the morning, the sun was hot on his skin. There had been no rain for three weeks and the dry, red earth was cracked. He smiled at the contented hum from his hives. There were ten of them in the apiary now but only four were in use. He did not have the time to invest in the bees the way his father once did. Even the hives that remained required at least one visit a week now that the temperatures were rising.

“You should get some help with the bees,” his wife said the previous evening. “There is no reason to keep it going now, if you are tired.”

She was right. With his father and mother both gone, they could sell the land. Holdings in the national park were like gold dust now. Maria would not push him, but they needed the money.

“I like the bees,” he said. “And you like the honey.”

She smiled. “You like to be where the memories are.”

He took her by the hand. “I like to be here too.”

“I know. You don’t have to explain.”

When Sebastián finished inspecting the bees, he sat on the rocking chair to make notes. Three of the four hives were filling supers with honey and the queen was strong and productive. He could not see the queen in the fourth but the presence of eggs put his mind at ease. 

An image of his father came to mind. He had been called to the campsite at the bottom of the valley to remove a swarm. Sebastián went with him to help where he could. The bees were hanging on the branch of a plane tree like a huge bristling beard. A small crowd of campers gathered and Sebastián felt proud of his father. It was the way he had stood in the shade beneath the swarm, paying close attention to the bees. When a staff member tried to speak to him the old man had raised his hand and asked not to be disturbed. Nothing existed in that moment but his father and thousands of bees in search of a home.

“Bring me the queen cage,” he had called to Sebastián.

Sebastián stepped forward as a registrar might support a surgeon, anticipating the next tool he would require. He could never forget the way his father turned to him, winked, then whispered: “Shall we do a little magic?”

His father had found the queen. Once she was in the cage, he set her in the box and turned to face his audience.

“Would you like to see one of nature’s miracles?” he asked.

Sebastián watched the ripple of translation pass among the tourists. They nodded, one or two shouted ‘Yes’.

“Make the incision,” his father called to Sebastián.

 Sebastián brought the pliers and, with one hand holding the branch on which the bees had settled, he severed it from the tree. His father had laid a white sheet on the ground and upturned the box in one corner with the front of it propped open. He motioned to Sebastián to lay the branch on the cloth and shouted, ‘Abracadabra’ for effect. When father and son stepped back, the bees marched towards their queen. The crowd grew in confidence and moved closer to watch the swarm disappear into the box. Women applauded, a child asked its sibling how it had happened and Sebastián’s father patted his son on the back.

A kite hovered above the orchard. Sebastián finished his notetaking and watched the heat thicken as the sun rose higher in the sky. It was time for a swim.

He took the dry riverbed all the way to the coast. It held the memory of a river the way a footprint tells you someone else was there first. Once, water tumbled over itself in its race to the sea. Now, Sebastián could see only the imprint of its fast corners, the sections where it rippled over smooth pebbles, the boulders it had softened, pockets in which it eddied and slow, deep gullies shaded by the forest. Every so often, when it rained, the river remembered itself before disappearing underground to join the mysterious channel it favoured.

He reached the coast at Cala Cubanita, a small cove with deep water. Sebastián undressed quickly, calculating the time he could spend in the ocean, plus a quick walk to the car and the drive home. There should be time to spare before collecting his wife from the market. He was anticipating the sharp water on his hot skin, the swell of the sea and a sky full of swifts feeding on the wing.

Sebastián did not see the dog until he was past it. A flash of black came from the corner of his eye and he turned to face it just in time.

“Hey,” he said, raising his arms to intercept the animal.

It gave a hoarse yelp and tried to jump on Sebastián again.

“No jumping,” he said, scanning the path for its owner, conscious that he was not wearing any clothes. “Where did you come from?”

Sebastián knelt in front of the dog while it licked his knees and attempted to lick his face. Its hair was matted in places and full of leaves and sticks. As Sebastián ran his hands over its flank, he found an open wound. The dog winced and its back legs collapsed.

“You’re in a bad way,” Sebastián murmured. “You poor thing.”

It was clear from the look of this dog that it had been abandoned on the back roads of the national park. It had no collar or tag that would suggest an owner and its injury might point to abuse. Sebastián checked his watch. He needed to go.

“You’ll have to come with me, friend,” he said.

His wife would raise her eyebrows when she saw the dog but would soon come round. She could not resist an animal in pain. He dressed, took a quick photograph of the animal and sent it to his son. ‘Please post this on the internet to see if anyone has lost a dog,’ he wrote. It was only fair. Then he lifted it in his arms and took a last look at the sea.

“Maybe later,” he said.

~

Robert used a remote control to position the caravan so he could hitch it to the car.

“That’s cool,” came a voice behind him.

It was the husband of the new couple who had moved into the opposite pitch.

“Thank you,” Robert said, hoping he would walk on.

“I’ve never seen one of those before.”

Robert sighed and lifted his finger from the controller. He turned towards the man. Usually, he loved to talk about the motor mover. He called it a ‘game changer’ and a ‘life saver’ when space was tight. The man was so keen. Robert took in his pale skin and crisp polo shirt. He was mid-30s at most with eager blue eyes and an accent that was hard to place.

“Do you want to try it?” Robert said, handing him the remote.

“Oh no, I really shouldn’t. I’m happy to watch,” he said, laughing.

“A spectator,” Robert said, more to himself than to the man.

“Yes, exactly. We’re in an Eriba Puck, it’s just shy of 3.5m, so no need for a remote.”

Robert nodded. “I’m not good at reversing, you see.”

The man shifted his weight onto the other foot and gave a nervous laugh. “Right?”

“I’m not good at most things, if I’m honest.”

In the silence that followed, the man cleared his throat.

“Go on then,” he said, reaching out. “Give us a go. I’m pretty crap at the reversing too, if I’m honest.”

Robert looked at him. It was possibly the kindest thing anyone had said to him since Missy disappeared. He handed the remote to him and explained the different buttons. 

“Where are you headed then?” the man said, catching on quickly to the motor mover.

“Home,” Robert said.

“Awh, mate, the weather looks set to hold until the end of next week. You wouldn’t think of hanging on?”

Robert smiled. “I’d love to. Things haven’t really worked out this year.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Robert should have left it there. “It’s my dog, you see. It went missing. We haven’t been able to get her back.”

The caravan stalled and the man turned. “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

Robert could see he really meant it. He wanted to say more, that Sue still wouldn’t speak to him, that she had been cruel, that the police were useless and that he had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that life was taking a turn for the worse. The man handed back the remote.

“Great bit of kit,” he said. “I’ll let you take it from here.”

He jogged off in the direction of the shower block. Robert aligned the hitch with the tow bar and set to work.

~

Mona’s first steps were from Stephanie’s arms to the camping chair. She set out like a boat from its harbour, reeling from foot to foot until she reached the chair on which Anton sat. He lifted her high into the air with a whoop of delight. Stephanie looked around, conscious that they were surrounded by campers. A pale man in shorts and a t-shirt jogged past and lifted his hand in a wave. She smiled back and returned her attention to her family.

“I’ll bring her with me down to Robert’s,” Anton said.

“What?”

“I got some wine from the bar this morning. I saw him drinking it the other night and I thought it might cheer him up. It looks like they’re leaving.”

Stephanie bit her lip.

“You can come, if you like?” he said.

“No.”

“What is it then? You seem upset.”

She straightened her back and forced a smile. “Me? Not at all. Go on ahead, I’ll get Mona’s lunch ready.”

Anton stepped forward and kissed her forehead. “Mona, your mummy is a terrible liar. But don’t worry, she’ll spill eventually. She always does.”

Mona grabbed at Stephanie’s t-shirt before Anton whisked her away and the two of them walked off towards Robert and Sue’s pitch. They knew them by name now, everyone who stayed longer than a couple of nights in the campsite did. It had been a week and a half of searching for Missy to no avail. Stephanie could not figure out whether it was better that they found her dead body or better that it remained a mystery. She had considered telling them everything, but the days passed and she said nothing.

It was one thing to dislike dogs but quite another to have done one harm. Her party line was self-defence. She lay awake at night forming her admission: she threw the stone to distract the dog, not hurt it. But what if they asked why she left the poor animal lying in the waves? What if they were horrified by her silence all this time? It was better to hold her council.

She could see Anton passing the bottle to Robert. Sue was nowhere to be seen. Robert extended his finger to their daughter, and they laughed when Mona shoved it straight into her mouth. The knot in Stephanie’s stomach tightened. She stood, peeled a banana, and mashed it to a pulp.

~

“She was the thing I didn’t know we needed,” Sebastián’s wife said, tousling the hair around the dog’s ear. “Go fetch it, Sofia.”

The dog leapt in pursuit of the stick she threw into the surf. Sebastián draped his arm over her shoulder, and they watched Sofia jump the waves then disappear beneath one. His wife laughed when Sofia emerged with the stick in her mouth and paused to shake the salt water from her fur.

The way the two of them bent to receive the sopping dog reminded him of how they once welcomed the boys into their arms. It was an alignment with which they were familiar: Sebastián and his wife side by side, extending hospitality to those in their care: children, teenagers, aging parents, now Sofia.  When the last of the children left home, Sebastián’s father moved in. When he died, Sebastián and his wife turned towards one another, but the space between them was too vast.

“Your turn,” his wife said, handing him the stick covered in Sofia’s saliva. Her eyes sparkled. He took the stick then pulled her towards him and kissed her as he did in their twenties. She went limp in his arms; he pulled back and grinned.

“My turn,” he said, looking down at the dog.

It had nudged its wet nose between their legs as if to prise them apart. When he lifted the stick, she bucked then crouched in anticipation. Sebastián lobbed it towards the sea and Sofia took off, a jet-black blur pounding across the sand.