Part 5 – The Trouble We Carry
The summer storms rolled in early that year.
Heavy clouds stacked like wet laundry above West Plains, and the thunder didn’t so much boom as settle into everything—gutters, bones, the cracks between thoughts. Noah didn’t mind it. Not really. But Toast?
Toast hated thunder.
At the first rumble, he’d slink into the hallway, curl tight against the wall like the sky might fall straight through the roof. Noah started sleeping with his door cracked and an old blanket folded on the floor. He didn’t say anything about it. He just let Toast have the quiet space he needed.
Sometimes, love is letting someone hide.
Noah’s parents noticed.
“You sure he doesn’t need something?” his dad asked one morning as Toast paced the kitchen, ears twitching at every clap of thunder.
“He just remembers bad things,” Noah said. “From before.”
His mom paused at the coffeepot. “Don’t we all.”
A week later, trouble showed up.
Not the kind that kicks down doors or throws punches. The quiet kind. The kind that arrives in a car with peeling paint and a man with a clipboard.
Noah spotted the car outside the house just as he got home from school. Toast growled low the moment the door opened.
The man stepped out slowly, like someone used to bad receptions.
Noah’s dad met him on the porch.
They talked in low tones. Too low. Then the man handed over a form, nodded stiffly, and drove off.
When Noah stepped inside, he knew something had shifted.
His dad’s jaw was tight. His mom sat still at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around her coffee like it was the only warm thing left in the world.
Noah stood in the doorway.
“What’s wrong?”
They didn’t answer right away.
Then his dad said, “We got reported.”
“For what?”
“The dog.”
Someone had told Animal Control that Toast was dangerous. That he was unregistered. That he “acted aggressive” near children.
“They’re coming for an inspection,” his mom said softly. “Tomorrow.”
Noah felt the floor drop out beneath him.
“But he saved Emily. You saw it!”
His dad held up a hand. “I know, son. I believe you. But the law’s the law. If he doesn’t have his papers—”
“He has a tag!”
His voice cracked. Toast walked over and pressed his body gently against Noah’s legs.
His mom looked tired. “The tag isn’t legal proof, baby. It’s sweet, but it’s not enough. We never licensed him. Never got his medical records.”
“He has medical records!” Noah shouted. “That lady—Rachel! Her cousin at the shelter! They took care of him!”
“Do you know where? The shelter’s name?”
“No,” Noah whispered. “I didn’t ask.”
He didn’t sleep that night.
Toast curled beside him, but every time the wind picked up, they both flinched. Noah stared at the ceiling until dawn turned the walls gray.
Then he got up, dressed quietly, and grabbed his backpack.
Not for school.
He walked five blocks to Rachel Carpenter’s house.
He stood at the gate, heart hammering.
And then—to his relief—she opened the door. A robe, a coffee mug, one slipper on, one off.
“Noah?”
“I need your help.”
Ten minutes later, she was in jeans and had her keys in hand.
They drove down dusty county roads, past places Noah had never seen. Toast rode in the back seat, his nose pressed to the window, ears perked but calm.
Rachel glanced in the mirror. “I can’t believe they’d try to take him.”
“They said he’s dangerous.”
She snorted. “That dog has the soul of a hymn.”
They turned down a gravel road flanked by fences made of mismatched boards. At the end: a white building with peeling paint and a blue metal sign.
Ozark Haven Animal Rescue.
Rachel’s cousin, Dana Lee, met them at the gate with a smile and a clipboard.
“You must be Noah,” she said.
He nodded.
“I’ve heard about you. And about Toast.”
Toast wagged his tail at her, then leaned into Noah’s hip.
“I need his records,” Noah said. “He has to have proof. Or they’ll take him.”
Dana didn’t hesitate. “Come inside.”
The file was thin but complete.
Vaccinations. Deworming. Treated laceration on right paw. Note: “Rescued by civilian, transferred by Rachel Carpenter, intended for future adoption.”
There was no photo, but the description was exact: brindle coat, cloudy right eye, notched left ear.
Dana signed the papers herself.
“You take this to Animal Control,” she said. “They’ll back off once they see it’s official.”
Noah held the papers like gold.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Dana smiled. “You gave him toast. He gave you his whole heart. That deserves protection.”
Back home, his dad drove him straight to the county office.
The man behind the desk was the same one with the clipboard. He looked surprised but took the forms without complaint.
He skimmed them, sighed, and then nodded.
“You’re clear. But next time, register early. We have rules for a reason.”
Noah didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
That night, Toast didn’t hide from the thunder.
He lay at the foot of Noah’s bed, watching the window, ears calm.
Noah whispered, “You’re safe now.”
And Toast thumped his tail once—just once—but enough.
