Part 6: Between the Cracks
Frank Dwyer woke before the sun, as he always did.
But this morning, his hands felt stiffer. His knees, tighter. And when he reached for the wrench on the table, his fingers locked for a moment before obeying.
He didn’t say anything. He never did.
Just flexed his jaw and pushed through it.
Eli was already up, measuring out Tank’s morning dose. The dog was curled on his side, breathing steady but shallow. His eyes opened slowly at the sound of Eli’s voice.
“Morning, soldier,” the boy whispered, scratching behind Tank’s ear. “You’re still with us.”
Tank gave one thump of his tail. Just one.
It was enough.
The old garage had come back to life. A neighbor dropped off a mower needing a new belt. Another brought a weed trimmer that hadn’t run since Obama was in office. Frank didn’t ask for much. Just enough to keep the lights on.
Every job came with a receipt—and a wince when he knelt down or twisted wrong.
His lower back burned. His legs cramped if he stood too long. And twice this week, he’d forgotten whether he’d taken his insulin at all.
He used to be strong. The kind of man who never went to the doctor.
Now the pills sat untouched in a rusted toolbox drawer.
He didn’t tell Eli. That wasn’t the boy’s weight to carry.
Inside the house, Eli skipped a school field trip. He told the teacher he had a family emergency.
That wasn’t a lie.
Tank was family.
And family was in crisis.
He kept a notebook now—Tank’s Logbook—where he tracked:
- Water intake
- Appetite
- Medication schedule
- IV sessions
- Whimper volume (he used a star system)
Dr. Kay had praised his dedication.
Said she’d never seen a kid take it so seriously.
But that didn’t make the silence in the house any easier. Or the fear in Eli’s chest when Tank didn’t lift his head right away.
Frank leaned against the garage sink, splashing cold water on his face. His vision blurred for a second—like someone dimmed the lights.
He braced himself with one hand, breathing slow.
The diabetes was catching up. He knew it.
He also knew the co-pay for a proper refill had gone up. And the old state insurance he used to have lapsed when he fell behind on tax filings.
He opened his phone and stared at the state website. Tennessee health assistance for self-employed workers.
Too many tabs. Too many questions. He closed it again.
There wasn’t time for paperwork. Not when a boy and a dog needed him.
That evening, Eli microwaved soup and split it in two bowls—one for himself, one for his dad.
Frank sat at the table, massaging his wrist.
“You okay?” Eli asked.
Frank nodded. “Just a little sore.”
“You didn’t eat lunch.”
“Didn’t need it.”
Eli pushed the bowl toward him. “Don’t lie.”
Frank gave a dry laugh. “Alright, alright.”
He picked up the spoon, took a sip. It burned going down, but in a good way.
Eli studied him. “You know, they have websites for help. Not just for dogs. For people too.”
Frank looked up.
“I’ve been looking,” Eli said. “There’s this place—Helping Hands Tennessee. They cover vet costs for old dogs, but they help families too. With food. Bills. Medicine.”
Frank swallowed.
“I thought… maybe you could apply.”
Frank didn’t respond right away.
He looked at his son—this boy who had barely spoken to him for two years, now sounding more like a partner than a child.
“Where’d you find that?”
“Online,” Eli said. “Same place I found Dr. Kay.”
Frank leaned back in his chair, exhaled slow. “I thought I was supposed to be the one taking care of you.”
“You are,” Eli said. “But maybe… you don’t have to do it alone.”
Outside, the wind picked up again. Not a storm. Just the quiet kind that sweeps leaves through the gravel and makes the world feel in motion.
Frank nodded.
“Okay. I’ll look.”
Later that night, Eli pulled the blanket up over Tank’s back.
The dog was still eating, still drinking, but slower.
More careful.
Frank sat on the garage steps, watching them.
“You ever think about what comes next?” Eli asked.
Frank squinted. “What do you mean?”
“After… Tank.”
The words hung heavy.
Frank looked away. “I try not to.”
“I do,” Eli said. “Not ‘cause I want to. Just… it’s hard not to.”
Frank nodded. He reached into the toolbox beside him and pulled out a photo—creased at the edges.
Mary, holding baby Eli. Tank just a pup, ears too big for his head.
“She said I’d be a better man with a dog in my life.”
Eli looked at him. “You are.”
Frank wiped a smudge from the corner of the photo. “Don’t feel like it most days.”
“You stayed,” Eli said. “That’s what matters.”
At 2 a.m., Tank let out a long, low groan.
Eli woke first. He crawled to the corner, placed a hand on Tank’s side.
His ribs were tight. Breath uneven.
Frank was already out of bed, grabbing the thermometer, the fluids, the pain meds.
They moved as one—two halves of the same fear.
Tank’s temperature had dropped.
Heart rate was faint.
Frank wrapped him in two warm towels. Eli whispered into his fur.
“We’re right here, buddy.”
By dawn, Tank had stabilized.
Barely.
Frank stood at the edge of the garage, staring into the pale gray sky.
He held his phone in one hand.
The cursor blinked on the screen of the Helping Hands application form.
He began to type:
Name: Frank Dwyer
Occupation: Mechanic (self-employed)
Household size: 2
Medical needs: Diabetes (Type 2)
Requesting assistance for:
– Veterinary expenses
– Medication
– Utility support
He stared at the final box: “Why are you requesting help?”
He typed:
Because I’ve given everything I have.
And I’d give it all again.
But I don’t think I can do the rest of this alone.
He hit Submit.
Then he sat back down beside his son and his dog, and waited for the next breath to come.