Part 4: The Storm and the Stall
I woke up to the sound of wind scraping tree branches against the truck’s side.
The morning was thick—hot and gray like something was brewing underground. You could feel it in your teeth, like when a storm is waiting for permission.
Dad was already up.
He was standing barefoot in the river, jeans rolled to his knees, hands sunk into the water like he was searching for something he’d dropped fifty years ago.
I sat up in the truck bed, my back stiff, the blanket stuck to my skin.
“Morning,” I called out, voice rough.
He didn’t answer.
Just kept feeling around in the current, slow and careful, like the water might bite.
By the time I climbed down and walked over, he’d pulled out two pieces of driftwood and tossed them to the bank.
“Good foundation,” he muttered, finally acknowledging me.
I wanted to say we already had plenty of wood. I wanted to ask what the raft was even for—was it a joke? a lesson? a ghost story?
But I didn’t.
Because something in the way he moved told me not to.
He stood slowly, rubbing his hip.
It was the first time I noticed the limp.
“You all right?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
“Pulled something,” he said. “Old injury.”
He didn’t have to say more. I’d heard whispers over the years—shrapnel near the spine, field hospital in France, months of rehab they never called by name.
Mom used to fight with the VA about it.
Said he was owed better care. Said they always “lost” his file when it mattered.
Dad would just shake his head and mutter, “It’s not worth the paper it’s written on.”
We spent the morning adding to the raft.
Him measuring, me sawing, both of us sweating like sinners in church.
Around ten, the wind picked up.
Not much. Just enough to stir the dust and bend the tops of the cottonwoods.
Dad glanced at the sky.
“We’ll get wet,” he said. “Might as well finish before it hits.”
That was his way.
Pretend the rain won’t come if you don’t look it in the eye.
By noon, thunder rolled once—low, distant, like a throat clearing somewhere beyond the ridge.
We stopped for lunch on the tailgate. Sandwiches again. Bologna and mustard. He handed me the bigger half.
I didn’t say thanks. He didn’t expect it.
As we ate, I noticed he was breathing harder.
Not gasping. Just slower. Deeper.
Like each breath was a negotiation.
“You sure you’re okay?” I asked again.
He waved me off. “Didn’t bring me out here to talk about my lungs.”
I nodded, chewing in silence.
But I saw the sweat on his neck, the way he massaged his chest when he thought I wasn’t looking.
“Hey,” I said, reaching behind me. “I found this in your glove box yesterday.”
I handed him the crumpled Medicare letter—the one marked ‘pending reconsideration’ with red ink and a circled note about “limited cardiac coverage.”
He stared at it for a long time.
Didn’t unfold it. Didn’t get mad.
Just looked at the envelope like it might explode.
“I wasn’t snooping,” I added quickly.
He exhaled through his nose.
“Been meaning to file it,” he said. “Never got around to it.”
Another roll of thunder.
Closer now.
Then, almost too soft to hear:
“Not sure it would’ve made a difference.”
I didn’t know what to say.
So I said the first thing that came to mind.
“You could’ve told me.”
He shook his head, folding the envelope twice, then once more.
“You had your own life. Your own worries. I wasn’t gonna be another one.”
He tossed the letter into the cab, like trash.
But I saw how carefully he aimed it, how he made sure it landed flat.
An hour later, the storm hit.
It wasn’t a slow build. It was a slam—sky split, wind howled, rain poured like punishment.
We scrambled to throw the tools into the truck bed.
The tarp came loose. Boards went flying. The raft cracked down the middle like a wishbone.
And then, just to top it off, the Chevy wouldn’t start.
I turned the key. Nothing.
Again. Just a click.
“You flooded it,” he growled.
“I didn’t!” I snapped, hitting the wheel.
“Then what the hell did you do?”
“Maybe it’s just old!” I shouted over the rain.
He reached over me, jiggled the key. Still nothing.
His hands were shaking again.
We sat in the truck, soaked, angry, silent.
For the first time in days, we sounded like the people we were back home—strained, sharp, full of blame we didn’t know how to aim.
“I told you to check the plugs,” he muttered.
“I’m not a damn mechanic,” I said.
He rubbed his eyes. “Neither was I when I started.”
Lightning cracked above us.
For a split second, the whole inside of the cab lit up like a camera flash.
And that’s when I saw him differently.
His cheeks had thinned. His collarbone showed. His hands, always so sure, looked hollow.
“You’ve been getting worse,” I said.
It wasn’t a question.
He didn’t deny it.
“I got through worse,” he said instead.
I bit my tongue.
He didn’t say he was scared.
Didn’t say he needed help.
Didn’t ask me to stay longer, to cancel my trip to Chicago next week, to take him to the damn clinic.
But the storm did.
The silence did.
Everything but him said it out loud.
The rain softened after a while.
The truck didn’t start. We gave up.
He sat with his head back, eyes closed, breathing deep through his nose.
“You know,” I said, finally, “I don’t want you to go.”
His eyes opened.
He looked at me.
And for once, the wall was gone.
“I didn’t build the raft to float, Tom,” he said.
“I built it so I wouldn’t feel like I was leaving nothing behind.”
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
Because in that moment, I finally saw it—
The raft wasn’t for him.
It was for me.
[End of Part 4]
👉 Part 5: What He Left in the Glove Box Wasn’t Just Paper…
Sometimes the last gift a father gives isn’t spoken.
It’s tucked in an envelope, folded into silence, and passed down when the heart finally cracks open.
