The man staggered before dropping to one knee. Instinctively, his hands sank into Mooney’s fur.
“Easy, easy,” he murmured.
Then he said softly,
“Hey, Moon.”
My heart stopped.
Nobody called him Moon.
The man looked up at me.
His eyes were wet and sharp. Blue—like Bennett’s, just older.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“You’re Caleb,” he said.
Not a question.
My mouth went dry.
“Yeah,” I replied slowly. “Who are you?”
He swallowed.
“I’m Graham. Bennett’s dad.”
The world tilted.
I had seen him once before—across a flag-draped coffin. He looked smaller now. Older. Worn down. But the eyes were the same.
“You were at the funeral,” I said.
He nodded.
“You were the one who wouldn’t look at the flag.”
I couldn’t argue.
Mooney leaned against him like he belonged there.
Graham reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded envelope, its edges worn from being handled too often.
He held it out to me.
“My boy told me to find you,” he said. His voice cracked slightly on the word boy. “Didn’t know exactly where you were, but I knew the area. And I knew you’d have the dog.”
