Part 7 – The Long Drive Across Town
El Paso, Texas – March 18, 2016
The truck started on the first try.
Rowan Greaves sat behind the wheel and didn’t move for a full minute. The engine rumbled like a tired old dog — willing, but wary. He pressed his palm to the steering wheel like it might slip away if he let go.
Patch climbed into the passenger seat with some effort. Rowan had built a ramp from scrap wood to help him in.
“Hang on, boy,” Rowan said. “Let’s see if this old girl still knows the way.”
The road east stretched out like an unrolled memory.
It had been nearly a year since Rowan crossed town. Not since before Patch’s leg got worse. Not since the last time the VA rescheduled his physical — and then forgot about him entirely.
Today wasn’t for him.
It was for Patch.
The ointment had helped, but the limp hadn’t gone away. The follow-up with Hope & Paws was supposed to include X-rays. Maybe shots. Maybe worse.
Rowan wasn’t ready for worse.
But he drove anyway.
El Paso blurred past — pawn shops, payday loans, taco joints, car lots flying faded flags.
The sun rode high, mean and bright.
Rowan turned the dial on the radio. Just static. Then a country song from the 1980s. He left it there.
Patch panted softly, head out the window. The wind combed through his fur in crooked waves.
Rowan glanced over and smiled.
“You ever ride shotgun before?”
Patch blinked once, tongue lolling.
“Dusty used to sit just like that. Didn’t move an inch unless I hit the brakes too hard.”
He paused.
“She’d have liked you.”
Halfway there, the truck hiccupped.
A sharp knock from under the hood. Then a sputter.
Rowan pulled over fast, heart racing.
He popped the hood, smoke rising in lazy coils. The radiator cap hissed — not boiling, just warning.
He stood with his hands on his hips, same as he had three days ago.
But this time, he wasn’t alone.
Patch barked once.
Rowan reached into the glove box, found the bottle of water, and poured it slowly into the coolant reservoir. Not perfect. But enough.
He waited ten minutes.
Then turned the key again.
The engine groaned.
Then caught.
He laughed — loud and honest.
“Still got it,” he said, patting the dashboard. “One more ride.”
They reached the lot behind the eastside grocery store at 1:56 p.m.
The Hope & Paws van was already there — parked under the only strip of shade. A folding table. A water bowl. Two staffers in green vests with paw prints on the shoulders.
One of them was Dr. Kinley.
She waved.
Rowan waved back.
Patch barked softly.
The exam was quiet, gentle. Kinley moved her hands over Patch’s hip, then checked the scar tissue around the amputation site.
She frowned.
“His weight’s good. Skin’s better. But he’s compensating too much with the front shoulder. That limp’s not just memory — it’s muscle fatigue.”
Rowan nodded slowly. “What’s that mean?”
“Means we need to fit him for a brace. Or a wheel cart if it gets worse.”
Rowan’s stomach sank. “How much?”
Kinley glanced around. “We have a donation fund. Anonymous sponsors. I can request it.”
Rowan said nothing.
She looked at him carefully. “You’d take a bullet for him. But you won’t take charity.”
“It’s not pride,” he muttered. “It’s history.”
“History doesn’t feed dogs,” she said, not unkindly.
They moved to the truck, where Patch curled in the front seat.
Kinley leaned on the open window.
“I see a lot of folks like you,” she said. “Veterans. Seniors. Good men who think surviving is the same as living.”
Rowan stared at the dash.
She kept talking.
“You ever think maybe Dusty didn’t just save you from that fire? Maybe she saved you from the kind of life where no one ever saw you again.”
Rowan didn’t reply.
She touched his arm gently. “Let us help. Let her legacy keep doing what she started.”
They left with a free brace kit, two weeks’ worth of dog food, and an appointment for April.
No charge.
No paperwork.
Just a receipt with a heart drawn next to Patch’s name.
Rowan folded it carefully and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
The drive home was quiet.
Patch slept with his head on Rowan’s thigh. The hum of the engine was steady. For the first time in a long while, Rowan wasn’t listening for what might break.
He looked out across the desert — nothing but dust and bones and cactus and sky.
“You saved me, girl,” he whispered. “Again.”
Back at the trailer, he helped Patch down the ramp and into the house. The brace fit snug around the dog’s chest and leg. He took two stiff steps, then three more, then turned in a circle before lying down with a huff.
Rowan made them both eggs for dinner — split down the middle.
He poured himself the last of the instant coffee and sat on the porch as the sun dropped behind the Franklin Mountains.
The mail came late.
A single envelope.
Thick. No return address.
Rowan opened it slowly.
Inside:
– A check for $1,126
– A sticky note that said: “Sorry for the delay.”
– And nothing else.
He stared at the paper like it might be a trick.
Then he looked at Patch.
“We’re not rich,” he said. “But we ain’t empty either.”
He deposited the check the next morning — took the bus, slow and creaky, with Patch riding in his lap wrapped in an old sheet like a baby. Nobody said a word.
He withdrew forty dollars in cash.
Bought a fresh bag of kibble. A carton of eggs. A can of gas. And — because it had been years — a small tin of shoe polish.
That night, he sat with a toothbrush, scrubbing his boots.
Not for anyone else.
Just for himself.
“Dusty would’ve liked the shine,” he murmured.
Patch yawned.
Later, he wrote one more letter.
To Hasan.
“You gave her a second life.
And now she’s given me mine.There’s a dog here now. His name is Patch.
I don’t know how many years we’ve got.
But I intend to make every damn one of them count.”
He folded the letter. Tucked it in with the others.
Then turned out the lights.
And let the night hold them both, gently.