Part 5: The Worn Tools
The next morning brought sun—pale and cautious, like it didn’t want to stay long.
Frank Dwyer stood in the garage doorway, sipping cold instant coffee, staring at the ’72 Chevelle. It hadn’t run in a year. Needed brakes, belts, and a new battery. But it still gleamed under the dust, stubborn as a memory.
It was the car he and his father had rebuilt together after high school.
The one he swore he’d pass to Eli someday.
Now it might keep the lights on.
And keep Tank alive.
He walked to the workbench, pulled out his phone, and opened Facebook Marketplace.
“Classic Chevelle – needs TLC. $8,000 OBO.”
He attached three photos, hit Post, and exhaled like he’d punched himself.
Inside the house, Eli was spooning wet food into Tank’s bowl.
The label read Renal Diet – Low Phosphorus, Omega-3 Enriched. The vet said it might slow the damage.
Tank sniffed it. Nudged it once. Then, with effort, began to eat.
Eli grinned. “Good boy.”
He wiped Tank’s mouth afterward with a warm rag, just like Dr. Kay had shown him. Then he checked the fluid levels in the IV kit. “We’re running low again,” he murmured.
Outside, Frank entered with his phone buzzing.
“Someone wants to see the Chevelle,” he said. “Today.”
Eli froze.
“The car?”
Frank nodded, slow and heavy. “I don’t like it either.”
Eli looked at the bowl. Then at his father. “Is it worth more than him?”
Frank didn’t answer.
An hour later, a black pickup rolled into the driveway.
The man who stepped out wore pressed jeans and shiny boots.
He introduced himself as Darren Raines, real estate from over in Dickson.
“Been watching that listing since you posted it,” Darren said. “I restore Chevelles on the side. Mind if I take a look?”
Frank led him to the car. Darren circled it like a hawk, then popped the hood and smiled.
“Original 350 V8. You don’t see that much anymore.”
“I rebuilt it with my dad,” Frank muttered.
Darren nodded. “Family cars hold stories. But sometimes, stories have to end.”
Frank felt Eli’s eyes on him from the garage door.
“I can offer six thousand cash,” Darren said. “Could tow it today.”
Frank’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked toward the garage—toward Tank, who had just lifted his head and wagged his tail, weak but still fighting.
Eli walked forward.
“He’s not just a dog,” he said. “He’s family.”
Darren looked at the boy, then at Frank. “Look, I’m not trying to rob you. Just giving you a way out.”
Frank exhaled through his nose. “Let me think.”
Darren waited in his truck.
Frank and Eli sat side by side on the garage step.
“If you don’t sell it,” Eli said quietly, “what happens?”
“We might lose the house.”
Eli didn’t respond. Just nodded, jaw tight.
“And if we do sell it?”
“We can buy Tank’s meds, pay the electric, get through another month.”
Eli’s voice shook. “He might not live that long.”
Frank’s hand covered the boy’s. “I know.”
They sat there, breathing the same air, hearts twisted in the same knot.
Inside, Tank tried to stand—and stumbled.
He yelped, loud and sharp.
Both father and son rushed to him.
Tank’s back leg was stiff, stretched behind him unnaturally.
Frank knelt beside him. “Leg’s locking up.”
Eli checked the IV kit—empty.
He reached for the pain medicine. Only one dose left.
Frank grabbed his phone. “Calling Dr. Kay.”
The line rang. Voicemail.
He left a message: “It’s Frank Dwyer. Tank’s not doing well. We’re out of fluids, and he’s stiff. Please call back.”
He hung up and looked at Eli.
“We need to get him to the clinic.”
“But we don’t have gas. Or meds.”
Frank stood, clenched his jaw, then turned toward the driveway.
Darren stepped out of his truck again. “You decide?”
Frank nodded once. “I’ll do it. Six thousand.”
The man handed over an envelope of cash and started making calls for a tow.
Eli didn’t speak as the tow truck backed up the gravel drive.
He watched the car roll away—the last thing left of his grandfather—until it disappeared down the road.
Frank folded the cash and pressed it into Eli’s hand.
“Go get your coat. We’re taking Tank in.”
They drove to McEwen with Tank bundled in blankets, resting across Eli’s lap.
Every bump in the road made him whimper.
Frank pushed the speed limit, sweat on his brow despite the cold.
At the clinic, Dr. Kay met them outside.
She moved fast, hands steady. “We’ll start fluids immediately. He’s dehydrated and cramping. Might be a potassium crash.”
They laid Tank on the padded table in the back room.
Frank hovered, arms crossed.
Eli held the dog’s paw.
Dr. Kay worked in silence for minutes that stretched like rope across water.
Finally, she looked up.
“He’s stable for now. But you got him here just in time.”
Frank’s knees nearly gave out.
Eli leaned into him, small shoulder against his ribs.
“How long does he have?” Frank asked.
Dr. Kay’s voice was soft. “It’s hard to say. Could be weeks. Could be less. But this bought him time.”
She looked at them both. “You’ve done more than most would. You gave him what matters.”
Frank touched the side of Tank’s face. “He gave it first.”
They returned home with two more bags of fluids, a refill of pain drops, and a new blanket—gifted by the clinic.
That night, Tank lay near the heater, his eyes watching every move, tail thumping faintly when either of them passed by.
Eli sat beside him, brushing his fur.
Frank stood nearby, holding the envelope that now held less than a hundred dollars.
“Guess I better put out the sign,” he said.
Eli looked up. “For what?”
Frank smiled faintly. “Garage’s open again. Father and son—repairs by appointment.”
Outside, the sky was clear.
And for the first time in months, the garage didn’t feel like a tomb.
It felt like a place where something could grow back.
Part 6: Between the Cracks