Saba.

“Saba!” Jenna said with pride, “Those last few stanzas were the best I’ve ever heard them!”

“Uh, thanks, Mom,” Saba murmured, “One problem: I wasn’t singing. Someone else was singing my part.”

Dakota froze.

“Are you sure about that, Saba?” Dixie said, giggling nervously.

“Positive,” Saba said firmly, “I thought I heard something, so I stopped singing, but someone else kept up my part through the rest of the song.”

“A brilliant singer too shy to come out in the open,” Sylvie mused, and then added in an excited whisper, “Or maybe even-”

“Shhh!” Jenna said suddenly. The group fell silent as Jenna’s eyes darted around the room. Just before Jenna was going to look at the window, Dakota unfroze and ducked down under the window ledge. She scrambled down the crates and hurried down the road, sliding until she came to a halt in the town square.

Gasping, she hid behind the giant Christmas tree and heaved a tired sigh of relief. She hadn’t been caught. She couldn’t let them catch her. If they did, they would want her to sing, and she had sworn she would never sing again. This time had been an accident. She had gotten too deep into the music, just like she had gotten too deep into trusting her dad.

Dad. She hadn’t said that word in months.

Dakota dragged her steps around the square, not seeing what was in front of her, but seeing the years go back inside her mind.

Two months old. She had tried to howl, and found a howl could sound different by starting on a different note. She learned varying notes and arranged them in patterns, and added her own words.

Three months old. She had sung one of her made-up songs for her parents, and Jenna beamed and Balto winked at her and called her by a special nickname, a name she had forgotten now beneath all the hatred and rage she felt towards her father.

Six months old. She had performed the lullaby Jenna had sung to her each night, ‘Reach for the Light’, for Balto. She had been working on this song for a long time, and she was determined to get every note, every word, every rhythm exactly right. When she had given it her all and finished, Balto whistled and stamped his feet in appreciation. He had been about to hug her and call her by that special nickname, when Aleu had jumped in and tackled him. By the time he had finished playing with her, he had completely forgotten about congratulating Dakota. Dakota had glared at Balto and Aleu, and she burned with anger that Aleu had ruined a moment that should have only been for Balto and Dakota.

Aleu had always been Daddy’s little girl, just because she looked more like a wolf than her siblings. Dakota felt like the mask of red fur on her face (all of her siblings except Aleu had white marks on their faces, while Dakota had all red) was a mask that obscured her from Balto’s vision. He held Aleu high up on a pedestal because of her wolf-like features, while Dakota was one of the crowd. Aleu was the favored daughter. Dakota was nothing.

Even when Aleu had run away, she was still Balto’s favorite because she had a different destiny from her siblings. It was always about Aleu, never about anyone else. It was never about Dakota.

On that day, Dakota had sworn off singing, and gradually the music had left her. Now, at one and a half years old, she couldn’t carry a tune on command. Only when she was deeply moved, like when she had heard Jenna’s and Saba’s singing, was when the scars would heal for a second, the music would come back to her, and she could sing.

A brown-gray blur at the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned to see Rosy walking Balto into the hospital on a leash, and Dakota puzzled over the meaning. Somehow her feet took her to the hospital window where she pressed her nose against the glass and saw the secretary at the front desk strapping a special dog jacket around Balto’s neck. The faded yellow cloth cloaked his back like a small cape, and across it in black letters it read ‘Volunteer Dog’.

Balto saw his daughter and winked. Dakota forced herself to smile, and watched as Balto jerked his head back to indicate the hospital ward and yellow cape. He rolled his eyes, grinned, and mouthed, “It’s all for the kids.”

She gave him another strained smile, and for a fleeting second she thought she saw a flash of worry in Balto’s eyes. The moment was gone when Rosy waved at Dakota, tugged Balto gently towards the ward, and stepped up the beds of two children, the only kids out of the five patients there. Their pale faces lit up at the sight of the hero of Nome.

Dakota turned away from the window and sat, thinking. This grudge she had held for months now was starting to grate on her heart. She knew Balto hadn’t meant to spoil her love of music, but something inside her just wouldn’t let the anger go. It was like one part of her was screaming, “It doesn’t matter if he didn’t mean to, he did it! If he truly cared about you, wouldn’t he have tried to figure out what was wrong by now? You have a perfect right to hold a grudge! If you forgive him now, it will be like saying you didn’t mind being ignored!” The voice kept screaming, but Dakota willed it to shut up.

All she wanted was some attention from her father. Holding a grudge hadn’t gotten her anywhere in that respite. What would make him notice her? She fit the pieces together. ‘Christmas…father…attention…’ An idea jolted her, yet it seemed too simple: a gift.

She could give Balto the perfect gift to show she still cared, and if the present was good enough her father would give her at least a few seconds of attention to say thanks. Then maybe her grudge would go away. She was attention-starved, and a little desperate, she admitted to herself.

Dakota charged away, mulling over what to give her father.

Dakota paced the living room feverishly, raking her mind for ideas. But she had nothing. There was nothing to give her father. It was Christmas Eve, yet all she might be able to give him was a smile that he would barely acknowledge. There had to be something. Anything.

The clock on the mantel chimed the hour: 3 o’clock. Dakota fought with herself. She had to stay and think of a gift; besides, if she went she might sing again, and then they would catch her, and she’d have to go through the long process of explaining why she hadn’t joined the group.

But the music was so beautiful…

The mother of the household stomped into the room, raging about shedding dogs and muddy pawprints. Dakota ducked a small slap that the mother dealt her, and slid out the door and down the street. Out of habit she walked down towards the old mill, and mentally kicked herself when she was standing in front of the building. She shouldn’t have come. But she wanted to hear the music so badly…

Sylvie’s scent filled her nose, and with a startled yelp she fled the street and hid behind the mill just as the Afghan hound turned the corner.

Practically choking on her terrified heartbeats, Dakota shakily climbed the crates and settled herself at the top. Sylvie padded into the room, followed by Dixie, and the two gossiped until Jenna and Saba arrived a few minutes later. The rehearsal ran much the same as yesterday’s, as the dogs sang ‘Carol of the Bells’, ‘O Holy Night’, ‘Jingle Bells’, and ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas’. Dakota made sure her mouth was firmly closed, but even so the songs flooded through her and slowed her galloping heartbeat to a steady drumming.

“Mom,” Saba asked after awhile, “Do you think anyone will mind the…religious stuff in ‘O Holy Night’?”

“Honey, of course someone’s going to mind,” Sylvie drawled while combing her nails through her fur, “Someone always minds. It’s just they know that if they speak up, they’ll be attacked by an over reactive mob that thinks a different religious view is an insult.”

“Sylvie!” Dixie laughed apprehensively. “Do you always have to exaggerate everything?”

Sylvie shrugged.

“I was talking to my mother,” Saba pointed out.

Jenna had been thinking hard, and she shook herself and gave her daughter a small smile. “Well, we can’t not sing religious songs…A religion started Christmas in the first place, and to leave out songs about the original reason of Christmas just wouldn’t be right. Yes, some might be offended, but what can we do?” Jenna shrugged helplessly. “We can sing the songs, and hope that others learn to appreciate the music even if they aren’t part of that religion. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“I think so,” Saba said slowly.

Jenna smiled. “Good! Because I don’t know any other way to explain it.” She laughed. “Nice practice today. Tonight’s performance should be great. And afterwards, I have a surprise for everyone.” Her eyes twinkled.

“Oh, Jenna, what is it? You can tell your old friend,” Sylvie insisted, “Your secret’s safe with me, I swear.”

Dixie started laughing so hard she had to be banged on the back by Saba, who was grinning widely.

Jenna smiled wryly. “No, Sylvie. I’m sorry, but this is a surprise for everyone. You’ll find out soon enough, anyway. 6 o’clock isn’t that far way. Alright, rehearsal’s over! You can all go relax until then. See you in a couple hours!”

Sylvie and Dixie sauntered out of the mill, Dixie still spluttering uncontrollably, “Sylvie, you