What Waits at Home

Ryan watched the creek behind the office catch the late afternoon light. Trevor stood beside him, lighting a cigarette.

“What’s on the horizon after you’re done here?” Trevor asked.

Ryan was retiring from his construction firm in three weeks. Six years at this firm, and it would all wrap up with a handshake and a cake from Costco. Everyone kept congratulating him, talking about freedom and golf courses, but Ryan felt off-balance, like he'd lost his footing on something he thought was solid ground.

"I don't know…" Ryan paused. "I have been thinking about opening my own garage."

"Yeah?"

"These shops around Denver..they're terrible. Overpriced, slow, half the time they don't fix what's actually wrong. I can do so much better." Ryan's voice gained confidence.

“I bet you would be great at it.”

A light-brown dog lingered near the water's edge. Its gait was uneven, eyes cautiously alert. Faint gashes lined its neck, as though it had pushed through thorny bushes.

Ryan broke off a piece of his turkey sandwich and tossed it. The dog crept forward, sniffed, and took it between its teeth. It chewed with intent, unsure when it might eat again.

"Ever thought about getting another dog? With retirement coming, you'd have more time to spend with it."

Ryan shook his head. “I’m not ready to open that door again. Losing Milo took a lot out of me.”

Trevor nodded. It had started with Milo seeming a little under the weather one morning - refusing his usual scrambled eggs, sitting by the window instead of tailing Ryan through the kitchen. Ryan had thought it was just the winter chill. But within days, Milo grew lethargic. Then the coughing started, soft at first, then persistent.

The vet's face had tightened the moment she touched Milo's abdomen. Everything after that passed in a blur. Trevor had sat with Ryan at the vet the day Milo passed from cancer. He had driven him home after and made sure the house wasn't empty that first night.

“When are you heading to LA to see Henry?” Trevor asked.

“I will drive out the week after I’m done here.”

“Does he share your love of road trips?”

“Not so much. He hardly gets a day off with those crazy hospital shifts. But he's passionate about vintage cars. Has been since he was a kid.”

Ryan checked his watch. Almost time to head home. The sun had dropped low, brushing the creek with gold. When he looked back at the water, the dog was gone.

Four days later, Ryan's SUV sat on the lift at Morrison Auto for a tie rod replacement. He waited in the bay, drinking burned coffee, when something warm nudged his knee.

The same light-brown dog.

'That dog's been around for weeks,' the mechanic said, not looking up from the undercarriage. 'Skittish as hell, though. First time I seen him go near anyone.'

The dog leaned against Ryan’s leg, looking up at him. Ryan walked to the vending machine and bought nothing. He was just testing. The dog followed every step, limping slightly.

“Looks like neither of us has anyone waiting at home,” Ryan said, glancing down at the dog’s mud-caked paws.

The dog wagged its tail against the concrete, as if agreeing with him.

"Come on."

They walked the four blocks to Pine Valley Rescue Center. Halfway there, Ryan picked up his pace. The dog tried to match it but faltered, the limp slowing it down. Ryan slowed. The dog kept its distance, a few feet back, never quite catching up.

Inside the rescue center, Ryan filled out the form, paid forty dollars, and tried not to look at the dog’s face as the volunteer led it toward the kennels.

He walked back to the garage and sat in his SUV for a few minutes. He let the weight of what he'd done settle in before he turned the key.

Two weeks later, the house felt quieter than usual. Ryan had his duffel on the bed, his thermos washed and drying by the sink - preparing for his yearly drive to Los Angeles. He opened the desk drawer and pulled out the old checklist.

Milo's items were still there: water bowl, blue blanket, treats. None of it needed now. Packing would be easier this time.

He sat on the edge of the bed with the checklist. The last time he'd made this drive with Milo, they'd stopped at that place outside Vegas, the one off the highway with the patio. Milo had gone crazy for their grilled chicken, so full and happy he slept the next hundred miles.

Ryan refolded the checklist and slid it back into the drawer. Tomorrow would be different. Twenty hours across two days. No stops for a dog to stretch its legs. Just the road and whatever silence he could stand.

He glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. Pine Valley closed at nine.

Pine Valley Rescue's waiting area was small, just a few plastic chairs. The volunteer at the desk looked up when Ryan walked in.

"I brought in a dog last week," Ryan said. "Brown dog with a limp. Had some scratches around its neck. I was wondering if it found a home."

She typed something, then met his eyes. "Oh, he's still here. You want to see him?"

Ryan followed her past the rows of kennels. When they stopped at the third pen, the dog was there.

The dog stood the second it saw Ryan. Its whole body went rigid, then loose, then it was slamming into the chain-link, whining high and desperate. The volunteer opened the gate, and the dog surged out, paws slamming into Ryan's chest with enough force to knock him back a step. A choked sound escaped its throat, its whole body trembling as the rush of recognition hit all at once.

Ryan knelt, and the dog pressed against him, trembling. He scratched behind its ear, and it leaned into his palm like it had been waiting its whole life for that exact touch.

"He's been waiting for you," the volunteer said quietly.

Ryan looked up. "Can I take him back?"

"You brought him in. You can take him out." She paused. "What made you leave him here in the first place?"

Ryan was quiet for a moment. "I thought I couldn't handle heartbreak one more time."

The volunteer smiled. "I'll get the paperwork."

Back home, the dog circled the living room three times before settling on the rug near the couch. Ryan stood in the doorway watching it.

His phone buzzed. A text from Henry: Done packing for tomorrow, Dad?

Ryan looked at the dog, then his phone. He typed: Almost. Yet to pack the toughest thing. I'm bringing you a surprise.