A #1 New York Times bestseller! The Letter for the King meets The Incredible Journey in this story of one dog’s quest to save the human he loves. I’m Tom’s dog, and he’s my human. We belong to each other. Rebel is a good dog. He loves his simple, perfect life on the farm with his owner, Tom—until one day, when the war comes too close. Tom is determined to join the rebellion to defeat the king’s men, but Rebel knows that war is dangerous, and he will stop at nothing to save his beloved human. How can he bring Tom home before it’s too late? A heartwarming adventure told from a dog’s perspective as he travels across a pseudo-Civil War Britain on his loyal mission, I Am Rebel holds sure appeal for fans of I, Cosmo ; When the Sky Falls ; and War Horse. A rollicking adventure, a tale of courage and faith, and the triumphant story of the special bond between a dog and his boy. A fast, fun, and sometimes frightening read, Rebel’s story will resonate with dog lovers of all ages. —Pete Hautman, National Book Award winner and author of Answers to Dog Ross Montgomery has crafted a page-turner that will keep the noses of young readers glued to the pages in the same manner as the hero dog’s nose is glued to the trail. I Am Rebel has the capacity to spark rich conversations about loyalty, sacrifice, friendship, and society. —Kenneth M. Cadow, author of Kirkus Prize winner and National Book Award Finalist Gather Ross Montgomery is the award-winning author of several acclaimed novels, including The Midnight Guardians . He is also the author of the picture books Ten Delicious Teachers , Penguin Huddle , and Ant Party , all illustrated by Sarah Warburton, and Space Tortoise and The Building Boy , both illustrated by David Litchfield. He lives in London with his wife and their cat, Fun Bobby. The Last Perfect Day 1 Home The day begins exactly as it should. It’s summer, and dawn is poking its nose through the curtains. Our bed is still warm with the night of sleeping. I can hear a cockerel crowing outside in the farmyard. I can smell bacon downstairs and hear the clatter of pans on the stove and Tom’s mum and dad talking to each other in soft sleepy voices. I know, from the moment I wake up, that today is going to be perfect. Tom is still snoring beside me. I stand up, shake out the last dregs of sleep, and snuffle over to him. He always smells most like himself in the morning: groggy and warm and sleep-drunk, all of him Tom. That’s my first job of the day: wake Tom up. I do it by licking his face. I love licking his face. It’s the best bit of the day. “Ugh!” Tom groans. “Yuck, Rebel.” That’s me. I am Rebel. It’s the name Tom gave me. He wipes the slobber off his face and hugs me close to him. I love it when he does that. “Silly old dog,” he mumbles. At this point, I should probably mention that I’m a dog. But I’m not an old dog; I’m only five. And I’m not silly either. I am a good dog. I know this because Tom tells me I am good all the time, and Tom knows everything. Anyway, we can’t stay in bed like this. We have so many things to do! Usually I wait for Tom before I go anywhere, but the bacon smell means there might be some rind going spare in the kitchen, and I think it’s important for me to find out. I jump off the bed and run downstairs and skitter across the tiles. There’s Dad, sitting at the table and already dressed for work on the farm. I sniff his clothes as I run past, all rich with the smell of sheep’s wool and sour milk and mud. I like that smell. Mum is hard at work by the stove, wiping her hands on her apron and shifting a big copper kettle. She smells of tea and soap and potatoes and porridge and mutton and gravy, all mixed together. I like that smell even more. “Ach! Rebel!” Mum tuts, shooing me away. “Take this and leave me alone, will you?” She picks something out of the pan and tosses it on the floor. Bacon rind! Yes yes yes yes yes. I snaffle it straight off the tiles, smoky rich and succulent, crackling with fat and hot enough to singe the tongue. I was right. I knew that today was going to be perfect. Tom comes downstairs, rubbing sleep from his eyes. We sit in the happy fug of the kitchen and eat in silence until the day can begin proper. I’m not allowed to beg at the table, but if I hide under Tom’s chair, he secretly feeds me scraps of his breakfast without Mum and Dad noticing. It’s the best bit of the day. “Thank you for doing this,” I tell him. “I love you.” Tom doesn’t understand me when I talk. He thinks I’m just barking or growling or whining. But on a deeper level, I think he knows what I’m saying. It’s like how I can tell he loves me when he scratches my head or pats my sides or smiles at me. It’s always been like that. We’ve never needed words. The cockerel crows again, and Dad gets to his feet. “Right! Come on, lad. Let’s not let the best of the day get ahead of us.” Dad says that every morning. “All right, all right.” Tom sighs. He says that every mornin