She had no idea I’d booked a flight out of Dublin three days early.

I stepped down off the porch and set my bags under the garage overhang, out of the downpour.

The side gate to the backyard was unlatched and swinging loose, knocking against the wooden fence post with a dull thud.

Red mud sucked at the soles of my walking shoes as I took my phone out of my pocket and turned on the flashlight.

The music got louder around the south corner of the garage, where the kitchen windows threw wide yellow squares across the soaked lawn.

Figures passed across the glass, shadows holding wine bottles and paper cups.

A thin, high noise came from the far corner of the yard, back by the overgrown chain-link fence.

It sounded like some small animal stuck under a porch.

I stopped on the gravel path and held my breath to listen.

The sound came again, quieter this time, ending in a quick catch of breath.

I swung the phone light away from the house, passing the narrow beam over the compost bin and the pile of cedar fence boards.

The light came to rest on the rusty metal roof of the old dog kennel my late husband Arthur had built twenty years ago.

Inside the pen, curled up against the wire mesh on a wet wooden pallet, was my five-year-old grandson, Benji.

His light blue dinosaur pajamas were soaked dark and stuck to his shoulders as he shivered.