📖 Part 7: “The Choice”
The next morning, the clouds rolled in heavy and low, dragging the sky into a deep gray hush.
Walter stood on his porch for a long moment, hand on the old screen door, feeling the storm in his bones before the first raindrop ever fell.
He should have stayed home.
A man his age had no business traipsing through abandoned factories in the rain.
But something stronger than sense pulled at him — a thread he couldn’t bear to snap.
He packed two sandwiches, the thermos, and a dry towel, tucking them all into an oilskin bag Margaret Jean had once used for her Sunday picnics.
The drive out to the canning factory was slow, tires hissing against the wet roads. Trees leaned under the weight of the coming storm, their leaves whispering warnings Walter chose not to hear.
When he pulled up by the old fence, he saw him.
The dog.
Sitting out in the open this time, at the edge of the lot, the wool blanket damp but clutched between his paws like a treasure.
Walter’s heart gave a painful thud against his ribs.
He climbed out of the truck slowly, hands open, letting the rain soak into his jacket without caring.
“Hey there, boy,” he called softly, voice nearly lost in the rising wind.
The dog stood, tail low, body trembling from cold or fear — maybe both.
Walter crouched low, ignoring the ache in his knees.
“You ready?” he asked, as if they were just two old friends about to set out on a familiar road.
The dog took a step forward.
Paused.
Another step.
Closer now — close enough that Walter could see the tiny scar above his left eye, the way his ears quivered with uncertainty.
“You’re not alone,” Walter whispered, rain dripping from the brim of his cap. “Not anymore.”
The dog looked at him — really looked — and in that moment, the space between them disappeared.
He bolted forward, slamming into Walter’s chest with a desperate kind of force, all ribs and shivering fur and trust so raw it nearly broke him.
Walter wrapped his arms around the dog, feeling the tremors ripple through the thin body, the rapid heartbeat hammering against his own.
“It’s alright, boy,” he murmured, pressing his face into the wet, matted fur. “You’re home now.”
For a long moment, they stayed like that — two old souls stitched together by loss, by hope, by something too deep for words.
Finally, Walter pulled back just enough to slip the old leather collar around the dog’s neck.
It wasn’t about ownership.
It was about belonging.
The dog didn’t flinch. Didn’t fight.
He leaned into Walter’s hands, tail thumping weakly against the cracked concrete.
Walter rose slowly, lifting the dog into his arms, feeling the wiry strength beneath the ragged coat.
He carried him to the truck, setting him gently on the passenger seat, tucking the towel around him.
As he climbed behind the wheel, Walter glanced over.
The dog was watching him, eyes half-closed, head drooping with exhaustion.
Walter smiled.
“Guess you need a name,” he said.
He thought for a moment, tapping the steering wheel.
“How about Scout?” he said finally. “On account of you finding me just as much as I found you.”
Scout blinked slowly, as if in agreement, and laid his head on Walter’s lap.
The storm broke over Boone County as Walter drove them home — rain hammering the windshield, wind howling through the trees.
But inside the truck, there was only warmth.
Only the steady, quiet rhythm of two broken things made whole again.
Together.
📖 Part 8: “A Home for Two”
The rain hadn’t let up by the time Walter pulled into his driveway.
It came down in thick, slanting sheets now, drenching the town in a heavy, cold mist. The gutters overflowed, spilling muddy water into the cracked streets.
Walter parked the truck, turned off the engine, and sat for a moment, listening to the steady drum of rain on the roof.
Scout stirred beside him, lifting his head, ears flicking uncertainly.
Walter reached over, rough hand gentle on the scruffy fur.
“It ain’t much,” he said quietly, looking toward the sagging porch, the peeling paint, the wind-chime clinking weakly in the storm. “But it’s ours now.”
He opened the door, holding the towel like a shield as he bundled Scout into his arms again, the dog too weak yet to protest.
The porch steps groaned under his weight, but they held.
Inside, the house smelled of damp wood, old paper, and the faintest memory of Margaret Jean’s lavender soap.
Walter set Scout down carefully on a thick quilt spread beside the fireplace.
The hearth hadn’t seen a real fire in years — only the occasional flicker when winter cut too deep — but today, Walter built one with steady, deliberate hands.
Kindling, then bigger logs.
The flames caught with a low, eager crackle, throwing warmth into the room, chasing shadows from the corners.
Scout curled up tighter on the quilt, trembling from exhaustion but no longer from fear.
Walter dug through the kitchen — the old metal cupboards screeching in protest — until he found a can of beef stew.
He heated it over the stove, thin wisps of steam rising to fill the house with a smell so rich even Walter’s stomach gave a small, surprised rumble.
He spooned a generous helping into a chipped bowl and set it beside Scout, watching as the dog lifted his head, sniffed, and began eating with slow, grateful bites.
Walter sat down heavily in his armchair, the same one he’d sat in every night for twenty years, and watched the rain beat against the window.
He didn’t turn on the radio. Didn’t reach for a book.
Just sat there, breathing in the simple peace of a life no longer lived alone.
Scout finished the stew, licked the bowl clean, and crawled over — stiff, cautious — to lay his head against Walter’s boot.
Walter looked down, his heart breaking wide open at the trust in that small, quiet gesture.
He reached down, resting his hand gently atop Scout’s head.
“You’re a stubborn one,” he said. “Fittin’. Took one to find the other.”
The storm raged outside, but inside, the house grew warm, the fire crackling low and steady.
Later, Walter dozed off, head tilted back against the chair, the soft weight of Scout pressed against his feet.
And for the first time in a long, long while, the dreams that found him were not of loss.
They were of younger days — of creeks and beagles, of laughter bouncing between the trees, of a boy and his dog running wild under the open sky.
Only now, there was a new shadow at his heels.
A new companion, fierce and loyal and stubborn as sin.
Scout.
Not the ghost of something lost.
But something found.
Something chosen.
When Walter woke to the soft gray light of dawn, the storm spent and the world washed clean, he found Scout still there, breathing slow and even against his boots.
And in the quiet of that small, battered house, Walter McKinley smiled.
Tomorrow, he thought.
Tomorrow, they’d start fresh.
A man, a dog, and all the mornings still left between them.
