“Grandpa… does it feel the same for you? Like what Chubbs has?” Her innocent words compared the dog’s raw, patchy mange to the pale blotches on his hands. Standing in the sunset with the trembling mutt in his arms, Donnie realized some wounds ran deeper than skin.
Part 1 – The Vet Visit Pact
Donnie Benson had grown used to being looked at too long.
People’s eyes always landed on his face first, then his hands—where the pigment had drained into blotches, pale as marble, leaving the rest of his skin dark like old walnut wood. Vitiligo had been with him for nearly half his life, but some days it still cut. Especially when children stared.
That spring morning in 1998, the stares weren’t for Donnie.
They were for the dog.
Chubbs, the children’s mutt, shuffled along the sidewalk beside them, leash looped through Rachel’s hands. He was a squat mix of bulldog and terrier, brindle-striped across his stocky frame—except where mange had stolen the fur in uneven patches, leaving raw skin beneath. Each patch looked like a missing piece of a puzzle, the kind you weren’t sure could be finished anymore.
Rachel Benson, eleven years old and already carrying the burden of being oldest, held her chin high as they passed neighbors’ porches. Caleb, nine, shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing at the dog and then away, as if ashamed by his own shame. Little Anna, just six, clung to Donnie’s free hand and whispered the same question again and again.
“Grandpa, is Chubbs gonna die?”
Donnie squeezed her hand, slowing his step so she could keep up. “Not if we do right by him, sweetheart. Not if we give him the care he deserves.”
The veterinary office stood near the railroad tracks in Shelbyville, Tennessee. A squat white building with peeling blue paint and a screen door that whined when you pulled it open. Inside, the waiting room smelled sharp with disinfectant, and underneath it, a faint sweetness—like hay in summer heat.
Two other families waited with dogs that gleamed with health: one a golden retriever with a tail like a flag, the other a sleek beagle puppy. Their children pointed at Chubbs and whispered, and their mothers pulled them closer, as if mange could leap across the air.
Rachel stiffened. Caleb flushed. Anna pressed herself hard against Donnie’s leg, hiding her face in the fabric of his work pants.
Donnie knew that weight—the shame of difference, the sense of being less-than under the gaze of others. He remembered the years when his own skin first changed, when he wore long sleeves in August heat, when he dodged photographs, when laughter at the wrong time could hollow a man out.
“Chubbs is still Chubbs,” he murmured. His voice was low, but Rachel heard him. She nodded, jaw set tight, holding the leash like a lifeline.
The inner door swung open and Dr. Elaine Hughes appeared. She was a broad-shouldered woman in her forties, streaks of silver running through her dark hair, with a face both kind and steady. She looked at Chubbs without flinching, without pity, and smiled.
“Well now,” she said warmly, kneeling so she was eye level with the dog. “Who’s this handsome fellow?”
Rachel blinked. Handsome. Caleb’s frown softened. Chubbs’ ears pricked at the tone, tail giving a tentative thump against the linoleum.
“Chubbs,” Rachel whispered, almost embarrassed, as though the name might sound silly.
“Chubbs,” Dr. Hughes repeated, rubbing gently under his chin where fur still bristled thick. “Strong name for a strong boy.”
The exam room smelled of alcohol swabs and dog shampoo. Dr. Hughes let Chubbs sniff her hands before touching him, moving slow, speaking steady. “He’s got a rough case of mange, but it’s treatable,” she said. “We’ll use a medicated wash and some ointment. It’ll take weeks, maybe months. But he’s got good spirit, and that counts for more than fur.”
Rachel tilted her head. “More than fur?”
Dr. Hughes met her eyes. “What makes him different is part of his story. Doesn’t make him less. Sometimes it makes him unforgettable.”
The words lingered like incense. Donnie felt them ring through him, striking something old and tender. He caught himself staring at his hands, the mottled skin that had once felt like a curse, and for the first time in a long while, he felt something else—something like belonging.
Anna asked if it would hurt. Caleb asked if other dogs would still play with him. Rachel asked the hardest: “Was it our fault? Did we not take care of him right?”
Dr. Hughes’ voice stayed calm. “No, sweetheart. Mange happens. It isn’t about blame. It’s about care, moving forward. You three, and your grandpa here, are just the right team for that job.”
When they left, the medicine bag rustled in Rachel’s grip. The children seemed taller, steadier, as though the words had given them something heavier than shame to carry—something like hope.
Outside, the sun dipped low over the Shelbyville water tower, staining the sky in orange and violet. Chubbs trotted ahead, patches glinting in the light, raw skin catching the glow. Donnie paused, seeing himself in that dog more clearly than he’d dared to before—scarred, marked, but alive, still moving forward.
He opened his mouth to say something, but his voice snagged. His keys trembled in his hand.
Rachel’s voice came soft, almost like a prayer.
“Grandpa… does it feel the same for you? Like what Chubbs has?”
The words stopped him cold. The street around them hushed. The whistle of a train echoed from far off, carrying through the evening air.
Donnie looked down into his granddaughter’s searching eyes. He knew the truth he gave now would shape her memory of him forever.
And he wasn’t sure if he had the courage to say it out loud.
Part 2 – The Vet Visit Pact
The evening air clung heavy with honeysuckle and the faint smell of creosote from the railroad ties. Donnie Benson stood there, keys cold in his palm, looking down at Rachel. Her eyes—blue like her late grandmother’s—were wide and unblinking, fixed on him with a child’s raw honesty.
“Does it feel the same for you?” she’d asked.
His first instinct was to look away, to give her the safe answer, the easy one. But Rachel was no longer the little girl who believed every story about Santa Claus or monsters under the bed. She was crossing that tender bridge between childhood and the place where truths—hard truths—start to matter.
Donnie swallowed, his throat rough. “Yes,” he said finally, voice low as gravel. “It does. Not on the outside, exactly. But inside.”
Rachel’s grip tightened on Chubbs’ leash. Caleb shifted from foot to foot, staring at the pavement. Anna looked up, confused, her small brow wrinkling.
“You mean,” Rachel whispered, “you feel ugly sometimes? Like Chubbs does?”
The word ugly cut sharp, but Donnie didn’t flinch. He bent down so he was eye level with his granddaughter. His vitiligo patches caught the fading light—one stretching across his jaw, another covering half his hand where it held Anna’s.
“I used to,” he admitted. “For a long while. When people stared. When I caught my own reflection and didn’t recognize the man I’d always been. But you know something?”
Rachel blinked.
Donnie glanced at Chubbs, who wagged his tail against the dirt, patches of raw skin shining like scars of survival. “Different doesn’t mean ugly. It means memorable. It means a story to tell.”
The train horn moaned in the distance, long and sorrowful. None of the children spoke. Donnie thought maybe he’d said too much, opened the door too wide. But then Caleb surprised him.
“I hate when people look at him like that,” the boy muttered, glaring down the street. “Like he’s gross. Like he doesn’t matter.”
Donnie placed a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “That’s their problem, not his. Or ours. What matters is how we treat him. And each other.”
Anna tugged at his sleeve, whispering, “But will he get better, Grandpa? Will the patches go away?”
Donnie exhaled, choosing his words carefully. “Some will. Some won’t. But either way, he’ll still be Chubbs. And we’ll still love him, won’t we?”
All three children nodded, solemn as a prayer.
They drove home in Donnie’s old Ford pickup, the kind that rattled over every pothole. Chubbs sat on the seat between the kids, leaning his weight against them. Rachel stared out the window at the twilight fields, silent, lost in thought.
When they pulled into the gravel drive, the porch light clicked on by itself, a motion sensor Donnie had rigged up years ago. The Benson farmhouse had weathered storms and seasons. Its white paint had peeled into streaks, but the porch swing still creaked faithfully, and the wind chimes by the door rang like old hymns.
Inside, Donnie set the medicine bag on the counter. He explained the shampoo and ointment again, showing them how they’d need to help scrub Chubbs’ fur and soothe the patches.
“It’ll be a team job,” he said. “Not just mine. You three will help, if you’re willing.”
Caleb straightened. “I can do the brushing.”
Anna raised her little hand. “I’ll sing to him so he’s not scared.”
Rachel hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll write it down. Like a chart. So we don’t forget.”
Donnie felt his chest swell, not with pride exactly, but with relief—like he’d set something fragile down in safer hands.
Later that night, after the kids had washed up and were tucked into the old guest room, Donnie sat on the porch with a chipped mug of coffee gone lukewarm. Chubbs lay at his feet, sighing heavy, eyes half-closed.
Donnie traced the rim of the mug with his thumb. His mind drifted back to his own father, a coal miner in West Virginia, a man who’d told him once: You can’t choose the skin you’re given, son. But you can choose the way you carry it.
He wondered if Rachel’s question would stay with her forever, the way his father’s words had stayed with him. He hoped so.
The night deepened. A whip-poor-will called from the trees. Donnie reached down, stroking Chubbs’ rough fur around the patches. “We’ll get through this, boy,” he whispered. “You and me both.”
The next morning, sunlight spilled across the kitchen as the children gathered around Chubbs for his first medicated bath. Donnie filled a galvanized tub with warm water on the back porch, steam rising in the cool air. The shampoo smelled sharp, medicinal, cutting through the morning’s sweetness of lilacs and cut grass.
“Easy now,” Donnie murmured, lifting Chubbs in with a grunt. The dog whined, but Rachel steadied his head, Caleb held the leash slack, and Anna hummed a broken tune of “You Are My Sunshine.”
Chubbs relaxed under their hands. The suds turned gray as dirt lifted from his skin. The patches looked raw, but Donnie showed them how to be gentle, how to move slow. When the water was poured away and Chubbs shook himself, spraying them all, the children laughed—really laughed—for the first time in days.
Rachel wiped her wet face with her sleeve, grinning. “See, Chubbs? You’re not so bad.”
Donnie chuckled, a deep, rough sound. He realized then that healing had already begun, and not just for the dog.
That afternoon, Rachel pulled out a notebook at the kitchen table. She chewed the end of her pencil before scribbling something across the page.
“What’re you up to?” Donnie asked, leaning over her shoulder.
She shrugged, a little shy. “I was thinking. What Dr. Hughes said, about being unforgettable. Maybe I could make it a school project. Like… stories about people and animals who look different but are still special. Maybe I could ask my class to bring in stories, too.”
Donnie blinked, caught off guard. “That’s quite an idea.”
Rachel frowned, uncertain. “Do you think it’s dumb?”
“No,” Donnie said firmly. “I think it’s brave. And maybe just what folks need to hear.”
Caleb piped up from the floor, where he was building with old Lincoln Logs. “Can I help? Maybe draw pictures for it.”
Anna clapped. “And I can bring Chubbs to school! He can be the star!”
They all laughed at that, even Donnie, though a sliver of worry slid through him at the thought of parading the patchy dog in front of a crowd of children. But he held his tongue. For now, he let their hope carry the moment.
That night, Donnie pulled open the top drawer of his dresser. Inside, tucked beneath old shirts, lay the pocket watch that had belonged to his father. Its brass was dulled, the glass scratched, but it still ticked. He wound it slowly, listening to the steady beat.
The watch had always been his tether—his reminder that time moves forward, no matter what the mirror shows. He thought of Rachel’s project, of Chubbs’ bath, of the way the children’s laughter had filled the house.
Maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something larger than any of them could see yet.
The week stretched on, each day stitched together by small acts of care. They bathed Chubbs, rubbed ointment into his skin, brushed him gently. The patches didn’t vanish overnight, but they softened, scabbed, healed by degrees. The children grew less afraid of the stares when they walked him down the street. They walked taller, as though Chubbs’ difference gave them courage, too.
But whispers still followed. At the grocery store, in the park, even at church on Sunday morning, when Chubbs waited outside tied to a post. Some folks looked with pity. Some with disgust. Others avoided looking at all.
It was after one of those church mornings, as they piled back into the pickup, that Rachel said, “I don’t care what they think. I’m doing my project. I’ll call it Unforgettable.”
Donnie’s chest tightened. He reached for her hand, squeezing it once. “Then I reckon you’ve already started.”
Yet beneath all the laughter and new resolve, Donnie felt a current of fear. He knew children could be cruel. He knew scars, even hidden ones, left marks that lasted decades. And he knew the weight of carrying difference through a lifetime.
One evening, after the children had gone to bed, he found himself back on the porch, turning the pocket watch in his palm. The ticking seemed louder in the stillness.
“What if they break her spirit?” he whispered into the dark.
Chubbs lifted his head from the porch boards, ears pricking, eyes steady on Donnie as if to answer. The dog’s gaze was patient, unashamed, unbroken.
And in that gaze, Donnie felt the first stirrings of something he hadn’t let himself believe in for years.
Hope.
Part 3 – The Vet Visit Pact
The following Monday dawned clear and golden, the kind of morning that made Shelbyville look like a painting. Dew clung to the grass, and the school bus rumbled down the gravel road like a faithful old beast.
Rachel Benson had her notebook clutched against her chest. She’d written “Unforgettable” across the front in block letters, underlined twice. Caleb carried his pencil case and a sketchpad, already filled with dog drawings—some with missing patches of fur, some whole, all smiling. Anna trailed behind, humming, too young for school but determined to be part of the mission.
Grandpa Donnie Benson stood on the porch with Chubbs at his side, the dog’s leash looped through his hand. The children climbed the bus steps, Rachel pausing halfway up. She looked back, her eyes bright, her chin stubborn.
“Don’t let him forget us, Grandpa,” she called, meaning Chubbs.
Donnie smiled, the expression both proud and aching. “Not a chance.”
The bus pulled away, dust rising in its wake. Donnie patted Chubbs’ head. The dog leaned into the touch, eyes half-closed, as if he knew the day ahead held its own kind of trial.
Rachel wasted no time once she reached school. In Mrs. Keller’s fifth-grade classroom, she stood before the chalkboard with her notebook in hand. Her voice trembled at first, but she pressed on.
“I want to do a project,” she announced, cheeks burning as thirty pairs of eyes turned toward her. “It’s called Unforgettable. It’s about people and animals who look different but are still beautiful. Still important.”
A hush fell. Some of her classmates snickered. One boy muttered, “Like that bald dog of yours?”
Rachel’s face flushed, but she squared her shoulders. “Yes,” she said simply. “Like Chubbs.”
Mrs. Keller tilted her head, curiosity softening her features. “Tell us more, Rachel.”
Rachel opened her notebook, voice gaining strength as she explained how Chubbs had mange, how Grandpa Donnie had vitiligo, how being different wasn’t something to be ashamed of but something that told a story.
“Sometimes what makes you different,” she finished, “makes you unforgettable.”
For a moment, the room was still. Then Caleb raised his hand from his fourth-grade classroom next door, where the door had been left open. “I’ll help with the drawings!” he shouted, earning a ripple of laughter.
Even Mrs. Keller smiled. “That sounds like a project worth sharing, Rachel. Why don’t you start collecting stories and see where it takes you?”
Rachel sat down, heart pounding, notebook clutched tight. She had no idea that her words had planted seeds that would grow wider than she imagined.
That afternoon, when the bus dropped them off, Rachel practically flew down the gravel path.
“Grandpa!” she shouted before she even reached the porch. “Mrs. Keller said I can do it! She said I can really make Unforgettable!”
Donnie chuckled, rising slowly from his chair. “Well now, sounds like you’ve got yourself a cause.”
Caleb puffed his chest. “I’m the illustrator.”
“And I’m the singer,” Anna declared, spinning in a circle.
Donnie laughed, though a shadow stirred in his chest. He admired their courage, but he knew how harsh the world could be. He thought of the church whispers, the pointed fingers at the grocery store. Could his grandchildren stand tall under that kind of scrutiny?
“Remember,” he said carefully, “sometimes folks don’t understand. They might laugh. Or worse. But if you believe in it… don’t let them shake you.”
Rachel nodded solemnly. “We won’t.”
That evening, they spread their supplies across the dining room table. The notebook, the sketchpad, an old shoebox labeled “STORIES” in bold letters Caleb scrawled across it. Donnie brewed coffee for himself and sweet tea for the children. Chubbs lay under the table, paws twitching as if he dreamed of running.
Rachel began by interviewing her grandpa. She sat up straight, pencil poised like a reporter.
“Grandpa Donnie, when did you first know you had vitiligo?”
Donnie hesitated, his thumb rubbing the rim of his mug. “I was about twenty-six. Woke up one morning with a pale spot on my hand. Thought it was nothing. But it spread. Across my face, my arms. Folks noticed before I did.”
Rachel scribbled furiously. “And how did that make you feel?”
Donnie’s jaw tightened. He stared at the ticking pocket watch he’d laid on the table. “Like I was being erased,” he said finally. “Like pieces of me were vanishing, and no one knew if I’d ever be whole again.”
The children were quiet, the kind of silence that came from respect rather than fear.
“But,” Donnie added, looking at Chubbs, “in time I learned wholeness isn’t about skin. It’s about how you walk through the world. Upright. Honest. Kind.”
Rachel underlined the word kind.
As days turned into a week, the project grew. Rachel collected stories from classmates: a boy whose sister wore thick leg braces, a girl whose cat had only one eye. Caleb drew them with surprising tenderness, every imperfection rendered with pride. Anna decorated the shoebox with stickers and glitter, declaring it their “treasure chest of differences.”
Donnie watched it unfold with both wonder and worry. He remembered his own childhood, how cruel boys had mocked a neighbor with a stutter, how he himself had stayed silent out of fear. Yet here were his grandchildren, choosing to stand in the open, daring the world to look and learn.
Still, the shadow of doubt clung. He wondered if he was setting them up for pain.
The test came sooner than he expected.
One Saturday morning, Rachel insisted they take Chubbs to the park. “If people are going to see him,” she said, “then let’s show him off. Let’s show he’s not ashamed.”
Donnie hesitated. The idea of parading the patchy dog in front of neighbors made his stomach knot. But Rachel’s determination was fierce, her eyes lit with something larger than childhood bravery.
“All right,” he said. “But we go together.”
The park was crowded. Children played on the swings, couples strolled with coffee cups, and dogs bounded across the grass. Chubbs walked proudly beside Rachel, though his patches gleamed raw in the sunlight.
Whispers followed them. A boy pointed. A woman tugged her poodle closer. Caleb’s fists clenched at his sides. Anna whispered to Chubbs, “You’re still my sunshine.”
Donnie felt every stare like a stone against his back. He wanted to turn, to shout, to demand kindness. But Rachel surprised him.
She lifted her chin, stopped in the middle of the walkway, and announced in a voice louder than he’d ever heard from her:
“This is Chubbs. He has mange. He’s healing. And he’s unforgettable!”
The park hushed. For a breathless moment, even the swings seemed to still. Then a small girl stepped forward, clutching the leash of a dog with a scar running across its muzzle.
“My dog’s different too,” she said softly.
Something shifted. Heads turned, stares softened. A few people even smiled.
Donnie’s throat tightened. He looked down at his granddaughter, standing tall with her patchy dog, and thought: Lord, she’s braver than I ever was.
That night, back on the porch, Donnie wound his father’s pocket watch, listening to its steady tick. The children were inside, cutting construction paper for posters, their laughter spilling through the screen door.
He reached down to Chubbs, who rested his head heavy on Donnie’s boot.
“You’re teaching us all, old boy,” he whispered. “Every patch, every scar—it’s a lesson.”
The stars wheeled overhead. The watch ticked on. And for the first time in years, Donnie felt the possibility of leaving behind not just stories of survival, but stories of courage.
Part 4 – The Vet Visit Pact
The school gym smelled of varnished wood and pencil shavings, the air thick with chatter and the squeak of sneakers. It was Friday afternoon, and Shelbyville Elementary was hosting its spring project showcase. Parents filled the bleachers, younger siblings squirmed on laps, and the principal tested the crackling microphone.
Rachel Benson sat on the edge of her folding chair, notebook pressed flat on her knees. Beside her, Caleb fiddled with his sketchpad, flipping through page after page of drawings until the paper edges curled. Anna sat between them, swinging her legs, humming to herself, though she wasn’t technically a student yet.
Grandpa Donnie stood near the back, Chubbs at his side. The dog wore a red bandana the kids had tied around his thick neck, but his patchy fur showed plain beneath it, the mange healing slowly but still obvious. Donnie kept stroking the bandana, half-wishing he could hide more of the raw spots. Half-knowing he shouldn’t.
When Principal Carter called Rachel’s name, a hush rippled through the gym.
Rachel rose, smoothing her dress. Her legs trembled, but she walked toward the stage with her chin high. Caleb followed, holding a posterboard thick with drawings. Anna skipped behind, clutching the glitter-covered shoebox labeled “STORIES.”
Donnie’s heart hammered. He had spoken in union halls, at funerals, even once at a town meeting, but he had never felt nerves like this—not for himself, but for the children. He rested a hand on Chubbs’ head, grounding himself.
Rachel stepped to the microphone. Her voice quivered at first, but steadied as she began.
“My project is called Unforgettable. It’s about how being different doesn’t mean being less. It means you have a story that matters.”
She opened her notebook and read aloud the story of a classmate’s cat with one eye, of a neighbor’s little brother who walked with braces, of Grandpa Donnie’s vitiligo, of Chubbs’ mange.
Caleb held up the drawings, his pencil strokes tender and exact. Children with braces, dogs with scars, a grandfather’s mismatched skin—all drawn not as broken things, but as whole.
Anna pulled slips of paper from the shoebox, reading them in her small voice: “My uncle lost his leg in the war but still builds birdhouses.” “My grandma has wrinkles and spots, but I think her face is the prettiest.” “My guinea pig is missing one ear, but I love him anyway.”
The words filled the gym like music. Parents leaned forward. Teachers dabbed at their eyes. A hush had fallen, heavy and reverent.
Then Rachel gestured toward the back. “And this,” she said, voice firm, “is Chubbs. He’s our dog. He looks different. People stare at him. But to us, he’s unforgettable.”
Donnie felt the room’s gaze shift to him and the dog. His chest tightened, old fears bubbling up—those stares he had carried his whole life. His instinct was to retreat, to hide. But then Chubbs gave a low wag of his tail, steady and sure, as if to say, We’re not running anymore.
Donnie stepped forward, leading Chubbs up the aisle. The children clapped, a few parents too. Someone whispered, “That’s the Benson dog,” but their tone was softer this time, almost respectful.
Rachel smiled, the kind of smile that could steady a storm. She closed her notebook with a decisive snap. “What makes us different,” she finished, “makes us unforgettable.”
The applause began slow, like a hesitant rain. Then it spread, filling the gym until it was a downpour of sound.
Donnie blinked hard, throat aching. He wasn’t sure if the clapping was for the children, for the dog, or for something larger that had taken root among them all.
After the showcase, people lingered. Parents came up to Rachel, thanking her. Classmates crowded around Caleb’s drawings. Anna showed off the shoebox until the glitter left trails across the bleachers.
But what struck Donnie most were the strangers who came to him. A woman with a boy in a wheelchair touched his arm. “Thank you,” she whispered. A man with burn scars across his hands nodded at him, eyes wet. “It meant something to hear that,” he said.
Donnie had no words. He only nodded, resting his hand on Chubbs’ head, feeling the dog’s solid warmth anchor him.
That night, the Benson farmhouse glowed with a different kind of light. The children spread their notebooks and posters across the table like treasures. Donnie poured himself a glass of iced tea and sat back, listening to their chatter.
“We should make it bigger,” Rachel said, already scribbling. “Like, not just our school. We could collect stories from the whole town.”
Caleb leaned forward, eyes wide. “We could put them in a book. With my drawings.”
Anna clapped. “And I can sing at the book party!”
Donnie chuckled, though his chest felt full enough to burst. He reached for his father’s pocket watch, winding it slow, the tick steady in the room.
“You’re dreaming big,” he said.
Rachel met his gaze, unflinching. “Isn’t that the point?”
Yet in the quiet after the children were tucked into bed, Donnie’s doubts crept back. He stood on the porch, the night air cool against his face, Chubbs curled at his feet.
“What if it’s too much?” he whispered to the dark. “What if they get hurt?”
The stars blinked overhead, silent. The only answer came from the dog, pressing his head against Donnie’s ankle. Chubbs didn’t hide his patches. He didn’t worry about whispers. He just was—whole in his own way.
Donnie closed his eyes, listening to the tick of the pocket watch in his hand. He realized then that the children weren’t just doing a school project. They were carrying forward something he had never dared to—choosing to walk into the open, choosing to teach the world instead of shrinking from it.
Maybe that was the lesson. Maybe that was the pact.
The following week, Mrs. Keller called Donnie at the farmhouse. Her voice held both excitement and hesitation.
“Mr. Benson,” she said, “the school board heard about Rachel’s project. They want her to present it at the county fair in June. It’ll be a bigger stage. More people.”
Donnie stared at the phone in his hand. His first thought was too much, too soon. His second thought was of Rachel’s eyes, the fire in them.
He cleared his throat. “We’ll be there.”
When he hung up, he looked down at Chubbs. The dog stretched, yawning, tail thumping against the porch.
“Well, old boy,” Donnie said softly, “looks like we’re headed for something bigger than either of us figured.”
Chubbs blinked, unbothered.
Donnie leaned back in his chair, the pocket watch ticking steady in his palm, and for the first time in years, he felt himself stepping not into shadows—but into light.