I stared at the dog.
“Why are you giving him to me?” I asked.
The soldier shrugged.
“Bennett said, ‘If I don’t make it, give him to Caleb.’ Said you needed someone who wouldn’t leave you behind.”
Then he pressed the leash into my hand and walked away.
That’s how Mooney came home with me.
He learned to climb stairs on three legs. Learned exactly where I hid the treats. Learned to bark at anyone who got too close to my truck.
About a year passed.
Then one brutal January afternoon arrived.
The wind chill was well below zero, and the roads were slick with ice. I had spent the entire day driving from house to house delivering oxygen tanks to homes that smelled like worry.
On the way back, exhausted, I pulled into a gas station beside a big-box store. I needed fuel and coffee before I fell asleep behind the wheel.
I parked at a pump. Mooney sat upright in the passenger seat, fogging the window with his nose.
“Two minutes,” I told him. “Don’t steal the truck.”
He snorted.
As I stepped out, I noticed a van.
It was an old white van parked near the edge of the lot. Rust stained the sides, and one window had been patched with plastic. The vehicle looked as tired as the winter sky.
An older man stood beside it holding a red gas can. He tipped it into the tank, but only a few drops came out.
He wore a faded Army jacket. No hat. No gloves. His hands were red and cracked from the cold, one knuckle bleeding.
