Part 4: Through the Rain
Tank’s first two days on the new plan felt like borrowed sunlight.
He ate half a cup of the Kidney-Support kibble, lapped water with slow dignity, and even wagged his tail when Eli clicked the leash.
Hope crept back into the garage, thin but bright, like dawn under the door.
Frank cleaned the shop for the first time in years.
He swept metal filings, tossed bent screws, and wiped the old engine hoist.
Each scrape of the broom sounded like an apology.
But behind the fresh-smelling towels and the space heater’s hum, other numbers stalked him.
The mortgage grace period ended Thursday.
The utility company’s final notice sat under a spark-plug tray.
And next month’s insulin refill would cost more than the family sedan was worth.
Wednesday afternoon the sky bruised over Waverly.
Clouds rolled low and heavy, the color of wet iron.
Eli felt the air change first; he set his math book aside and looked out the garage door.
“Storm’s coming,” he said.
Frank’s shoulders tightened.
That word—storm—still lived inside both of them like a sleeping animal.
Three years ago a storm kept them from the hospital in time to save Mary Dwyer’s heart.
Tank rose, unsteady, and limped to Frank’s boot.
The dog leaned full weight, as if saying stay with me.
Frank touched the graying head. “Not going anywhere, partner.”
Lightning cracked in the west hills.
A hard wind swept dust across the concrete.
Frank closed the big door, bolted it, and turned back just as the first fat drops hammered the roof.
Power flickered and died.
The heater clicked off, leaving hush and ticking metal.
Eli crouched by Tank, wrapping an old quilt around the dog’s ribs.
He could feel the tremor in Tank’s legs.
“Pain meds at six,” he said, checking his watch—4:58 p.m.
Time moved slower when you counted breaths.
Frank lit a kerosene lamp from a shelf.
The wick sputtered, then settled into a soft, yellow glow.
In that light the garage looked older, almost sacred—tools hanging like relics, dust floating like incense.
Rain drummed harder.
Water seeped under the side door, pooling near the drain where Tank had collapsed four nights earlier.
Memories slithered in with it.
Frank sat on an overturned bucket, lamp between his boots.
He rubbed the small of his back where the ache never quit.
“Your mom hated this kind of rain,” he said, voice rough.
Eli looked up, surprised to hear the past spoken aloud.
“She said it sounded like nails on her coffin.”
Eli swallowed. “I remember.”
Frank’s jaw worked. “I should’ve driven her sooner.”
Silence filled the spaces the wind couldn’t reach.
Tank whined—a thin, cracked sound.
Eli stroked his muzzle. “We’re here, boy.”
The clock hit six.
Eli drew the dropper, counted pain-relief liquid—tramadol for dogs, the label read.
Frank steadied Tank’s head while the boy slipped the medicine past canine teeth.
Small teamwork, but it felt like bridge-building.
Outside, thunder rolled like freight cars.
Something thumped against the roof—loose tin, maybe.
Frank stood to check, and the lamp flame bent in the draft.
His shadow stretched long across the wall, touching the pegboard where Mary’s garden gloves still hung.
Eli watched him.
For the first time, the boy noticed how tired his father looked—skin sagging at the jaw, eyes ringed purple.
He also noticed the cracked leather wallet bulging with receipts instead of cash.
“Dad, do we have pet insurance?” he asked.
Frank laughed once, a sound more break than music.
“Couldn’t get it. Pre-existing condition, they said. Same thing my health plan told me.”
Eli bit his lip. “What about people who help… like a payment plan?”
“Bank said no last month.”
“Another loan?”
“Son, you can’t borrow forever.”
Frank’s gaze drifted to the dark window. “Sometimes you just run out of road.”
The words settled heavy, like the humid air itself.
A sharp yelp cut through the thunder.
Tank lurched, legs kicking.
The quilt slid away, revealing a wet stain—urine tinged with pink.
Eli’s heart slammed. “Dad!”
Frank knelt, feeling Tank’s belly.
It was hard, swollen—sign of fluid build-up the vet had warned them about.
“We need to drain him,” Frank muttered, recalling Dr. Kay’s sheet on subcutaneous fluids and emergency care. “Get the kit.”
Eli grabbed the IV bag, tubing, and needle from a plastic box.
His hands shook but found the vein under Tank’s scruff the way Dr. Kay taught.
Frank lifted the bag, letting gravity do the quiet work.
Minutes crawled.
Rain roared.
Inside the small circle of lamplight, father and son moved like a single mind—clamp, squeeze, whisper.
Tank’s breathing eased, though his eyes stayed half-closed.
The IV finished.
Eli coiled the tubing, wiping a tear with the back of his wrist.
Frank exhaled, long and shaky. “You did good.”
Eli sat back on his heels. “So did you.”
Wind rattled the garage door, but the anger had left the storm.
Only steady rain remained—a lullaby for broken things.
Frank rested his hand on Eli’s shoulder.
“I never said thank you for emailing those people,” he murmured.
Eli shrugged. “You’re welcome.”
Another silence, softer now, settled between them.
“We’ll need more supplies,” Frank said. “Needles, fluids, that renal diet. And I gotta keep the lights on.”
“How?” Eli asked.
Frank looked toward Mary’s garden gloves, then at the silent workbench.
“Takes more than wrenches to fix a life. Maybe… maybe I sell the old Chevy. Could clear the mortgage backlog, buy Tank’s meds, keep the heat.”
Eli’s eyes widened. The ’72 Chevelle had been Frank’s dream rebuild with his dad.
“Grandpa’s car?”
“It’s just metal, son.”
A sudden boom cut the calm—the generator outside toppled in the wind, slamming against the propane tank.
Flames spurted, quick and hungry, licking at the wet grass.
Frank lunged, grabbing the fire extinguisher.
Eli sprinted to open the side door.
Rain sheeted sideways, stinging their faces as father and son battled the flare.
White foam hissed.
Eli’s sneakers slid in mud.
Frank’s arms trembled, but he kept the nozzle steady until the last flicker died.
When they staggered back inside, soaked and panting, the garage smelled of extinguisher dust and burnt rubber.
Tank lifted his head, eyes following them.
Frank set the empty canister down.
“We almost lost everything,” he said, voice low.
Eli shivered. “We still could.”
Frank nodded. “Not tonight.”
He shut the door, latched it, and sank to the floor beside his son and dog.
Outside, the storm finally began to pass, leaving only dripping eaves and distant thunder.
Inside, three heartbeats found the same rhythm.