Part 7: The Storm Returns
The storm arrived on a Friday.
It wasn’t in the forecast. No colored maps or sirens. Just a low sky and a sudden stillness in the air—like the town was holding its breath.
Frank Dwyer stood on the porch of the garage, wiping grease from his hands, watching the tree line shift. The air smelled of dust and ozone, the kind of smell that made your bones remember things they didn’t want to.
Behind him, Eli was on the floor with Tank, laying on his side so their faces lined up. The old dog’s breathing was shallow now, belly barely lifting beneath the blanket.
The storm rolled in like a memory.
That night, the wind came hard.
The lights flickered just after dinner. Then again around nine.
By ten, the power was gone completely.
Eli had set up candles in glass jars and brought out the IV kit, now nearly empty. Tank needed fluids. His gums had gone pale. His eyes stayed half-lidded even when they called his name.
Frank knelt beside them, sweat on his brow despite the cold. His knees popped when he shifted. His lower back screamed. He tried to ignore it.
“We’re out of pain meds,” Eli whispered.
Frank nodded.
“And we’re down to one IV bag.”
Frank said nothing.
Tank’s paw twitched weakly, as if trying to scratch something in a dream he couldn’t reach.
Outside, rain came in sideways.
It tapped at the garage roof like fingernails, quick and nervous.
The trees danced. The power lines hummed in the dark.
Inside, the garage had become a world of its own. Quiet but pulsing—filled with heartbeats and hope.
Frank opened his phone, looking for a signal. One bar. He refreshed his email.
Nothing.
No reply from Helping Hands.
No answer from Dr. Kay.
He tried again.
“Do you think he’s hurting?” Eli asked, breaking the silence.
Frank looked at Tank’s eyes—red at the rims, unfocused.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“He looks tired.”
Frank nodded. “He is.”
Eli rubbed the dog’s ears, his voice small. “We can’t let him hurt.”
Frank leaned back, exhaled hard. “We won’t.”
There were no more words after that. Just the sound of wind, of breath, of things falling apart slowly.
At 2:14 a.m., a loud crack split the air.
The old pecan tree in the yard lost a limb.
It landed on the garage roof—hard.
The tin roof didn’t break, but the sound sent Tank into a brief panic. He tried to rise, legs flailing. His body twisted sharply, and he yelped, loud and high.
Eli screamed, “Dad!”
Frank rushed to hold Tank still. Eli wrapped his arms around the dog’s chest, whispering into his fur.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re not alone. You’re not alone.”
Tank’s panic slowed. But the yelp left something behind—his breathing now came in short, sharp rasps.
They’d hit the edge.
Frank stood up and looked at the shelf of tools.
He had nothing left to sell.
Nothing left to trade.
Nothing left in his hands but time.
But even time was slipping.
Then his phone buzzed.
One new email.
Subject: RE: Your Application – Helping Hands Tennessee
Frank,
Thank you for your application. We’ve reviewed your request and can offer immediate emergency assistance.A local partner clinic—Dr. Kay’s—has been approved for hospice care funding. Pain medication will be covered. Additional fluid kits en route.
We’ve also issued a one-time grant for utility relief and basic medical expenses.
You’re not alone.
— Amanda
Community Outreach, Helping Hands TN
Frank stared at the screen, eyes burning.
He showed it to Eli without speaking.
The boy read it, then looked down at Tank.
“See? They heard us,” he whispered.
Frank knelt down. “We’re gonna get you through tonight, old boy.”
By 4 a.m., the pain meds were delivered. Dr. Kay herself showed up, drenched in rain, carrying a small case.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Something told me to come.”
She moved quickly, checking Tank’s vitals, assessing his pain.
“His time’s close,” she said gently. “But with this, he can rest easier.”
She injected the dose herself, then stood. “I’ll leave more supplies. And if… if you want to call me when it’s time, I’ll come.”
Frank placed a hand on her arm. “Thank you.”
She nodded and slipped back into the rain.
The storm faded with the sun.
The sky turned from charcoal to ash to something soft and blue at the edges.
Frank and Eli lay on either side of Tank now, their bodies forming a quiet shelter.
“Dad?” Eli asked.
“Yeah?”
“Did you ever feel like… you weren’t enough?”
Frank stared at the ceiling. “Every damn day.”
Eli nodded. “Me too.”
Frank turned to him. “You’re more than enough, son.”
He paused, then added, “I think… you’ve saved more than one life this week.”
Eli sniffed. “We did it together.”
Frank ran his hand over Tank’s side.
“I’m glad you came back to the garage.”
“I never left,” Eli whispered. “I just didn’t know how to stay.”
They didn’t speak after that.
They didn’t need to.
The old dog lay between them, finally asleep, finally still.