Part 8 – The Call That Changes Things
Rowan Greaves was doing something he hadn’t done in years.
He was humming.
Nothing fancy. Just a low, tuneless sound as he wiped down the kitchen counter with a rag older than some presidents. Outside, the wind carried a quiet warmth — not quite spring, but close enough to pretend.
Patch lay on the floor nearby, legs outstretched, the brace snug around his chest. He looked relaxed. Settled.
For the first time in months, maybe years, things weren’t falling apart.
They were still poor. Still stiff. Still a little broken.
But they were upright.
And alive.
The phone rang just after noon.
Rowan froze.
Nobody ever called. He didn’t even keep the ringer on most days. The landline existed mostly for emergencies — or telemarketers.
He wiped his hands, limped to the wall, and picked it up.
“Greaves.”
“Mr. Rowan Greaves?”
“That’s right.”
“This is Stephanie from the El Paso VA Billing Department.”
His stomach dropped.
She continued.
“I’m calling to inform you of a change in your account status. According to our records, your co-pay exemption has lapsed due to failure to resubmit your eligibility paperwork.”
Rowan closed his eyes.
“What does that mean?”
“It means your last two visits were billed at standard rate. Your current balance is $348.12.”
He let out a bitter breath. “Ma’am, I don’t even remember the last two visits.”
“Well,” she said, her voice softening slightly, “one was in December for labs. The other was January — rescheduled physical.”
“I waited in the lobby for three hours and never saw a doctor.”
“Unfortunately, the billing is based on check-in, not outcome.”
Rowan gripped the counter until his fingers turned white.
“I don’t have that money.”
“I understand. There are payment plan options.”
“I can’t even pay for my dog’s shampoo without a miracle.”
There was silence on the other end.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Greaves. I’ll note that you’ve been informed.”
He hung up without saying goodbye.
Patch raised his head, sensing the shift in the air.
Rowan looked at him.
“Well, boy. Guess it’s time to sell the radio.”
The radio wasn’t just a radio.
It was a 1951 Zenith — walnut body, soft yellow dial, the kind you don’t see outside old movie sets. It had belonged to his father. They’d listened to war reports on it. Baseball games. Sermons.
He hadn’t turned it on in years. But it still worked.
Rowan dusted it, packed it carefully in a box, and set it by the door.
“Don’t suppose you’d like to trade it for a miracle,” he muttered.
Patch nudged the box with his nose, then walked away.
Even the dog knew it was a loss.
He took the bus to a pawn shop on Montana Avenue.
The clerk was kind — middle-aged, soft eyes, wedding band that looked too tight.
“Good piece,” he said. “Real vintage.”
Rowan nodded. “It still sings.”
The man tested it, nodded again.
“I can give you a hundred. Maybe one-fifteen.”
Rowan exhaled. He’d been hoping for one-fifty. But hope didn’t pay bills.
“I’ll take it.”
The man counted out twenties and handed them over carefully, like it was something sacred.
Rowan took the bills and walked out into the wind.
Back home, he paid the light bill online at the library. Used what was left to put $40 toward the VA debt. Not enough, but something.
That night, dinner was rice with a fried egg split between them. Again.
Still… Patch wagged his tail like it was a steak.
Rowan rubbed his ear.
“You don’t care what’s on the plate, do you?”
Patch leaned into his hand.
“No,” Rowan whispered. “You care who’s across from you.”
Before bed, he opened the tin under the floor again.
The photo. The collar. The scorched tag.
He added the pawn receipt. A small, folded square that represented another piece of his past, gone.
“I hope this is what you meant, Dusty,” he said. “All this staying.”
The next day brought another call.
This one from the clinic.
Dr. Kinley.
“Rowan, I got the final X-ray readout from Patch’s shoulder. There’s something we need to talk about.”
His chest tightened.
She continued.
“He’s compensating harder than we thought. If we don’t slow him down, we’re looking at possible nerve involvement.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means if we don’t help him soon — with a fitted brace, custom — he might lose full use of that front leg too.”
Rowan went quiet.
Kinley added gently, “We’re submitting your case to the sponsor program. There’s a waitlist. But I’m pushing it.”
He nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
“One more thing,” she said. “You need to care for yourself too. That limp of yours is worse.”
“Old soldiers walk crooked,” he said.
“And old dogs deserve men who don’t fall on the way to the food bowl.”
That got a laugh out of him. Just barely.
That night, Rowan made a list.
- Apply for Medicaid again
- Ask Teresa if she still has her cane
- Call the grant line Dr. Kinley mentioned
- Find a cheaper insulin source
And at the bottom:
“Don’t give up.”
It wasn’t written like a note.
More like a dare.
He slept badly. Dreamed of Dusty again.
But this time, she wasn’t in a sandstorm. She was on a porch. His porch. And beside her — a dog with three legs and crooked eyes.
Both watching him.
Both waiting.
He woke with tears dried into his beard.
Patch snored softly beside him.
Rowan placed a hand over the dog’s chest and whispered, “Still breathing. Still here.”
Later that morning, he limped to the church again.
Didn’t go in.
Just sat outside.
The woman in the purple sweater sat next to him. She handed him a thermos of weak coffee.
“Bad news?” she asked.
“Mostly,” he said.
She didn’t press.
They sat for an hour. Patch between them. Sun overhead.
Somewhere in the silence, he found just enough strength to keep trying.