Every week he showed up with a pot of something and a toolbox.
He fixed my cabinet. Then my door hinge. Shoveled the snow off my steps when winter storms rolled through.
Sometimes we talked about Bennett.
Sometimes we didn’t.
Graham wasn’t big on speeches.
He just showed up.
Mooney still barked at most strangers.
Mail carriers. Guys in hoodies. Anyone who stared too long at my truck.
But whenever Graham knocked, Mooney lost his mind with happiness—whining, tail whipping, dancing until I opened the door.
Graham would scratch behind his ears and say,
