Part 7: “The Thing About Waiting”
The wind rattled the windowpanes that night like an old friend knocking from the other side.
Henry lay in bed listening to it, the warm weight of Bugsy curled behind his knees. He used to sleep light—used to wake at the sound of a passing truck or a coyote in the trees. But these days, he found peace in the small things: the crackle of the fire, the low hum of a dog breathing, the ache in his hands that let him know they still worked.
He didn’t think of the gas station anymore.
Not with pain, anyway.
But sometimes—just sometimes—he thought about the hours Bugsy had sat there. In rain. In heat. In silence.
And it humbled him.
Because the thing about dogs is… they don’t question why they wait.
They just do.
The next morning brought frost on the grass and coffee in mugs too hot to hold.
Mika arrived with a scarf for Bugsy—red plaid, just like the one in her newest drawing.
“He gets cold,” she said simply.
Bugsy accepted the gift without protest and wore it like a veteran wears medals—no fanfare, just quiet pride.
Paige followed, carrying a box of bulbs and a spade.
“I thought we’d plant something,” she said. “Tulips. Daffodils. Little things that come back even after the snow.”
Henry raised an eyebrow. “You think this old soil remembers how to grow?”
“I think,” she said, “everything remembers, if it’s given a reason.”
They dug small holes beside the porch. Mika pressed each bulb into place with the care of someone burying wishes. Bugsy supervised, nose low to the ground, occasionally sneezing at the scent of loamy earth.
Henry watched the three of them—the girl, the woman, the dog—and felt something settle in his chest.
Not joy exactly.
But return.
Later, Paige sat with him on the porch, a blanket over both their knees.
“You know,” she said, “it’s funny what technology remembers and what it forgets.”
“How so?”
“The state system logged your absence the minute your power went off. It knew the utilities were shut down, knew you weren’t buying groceries, making calls. But it didn’t log the dog. Didn’t see Bugsy at all.”
Henry stared across the yard, the tips of the tulips barely visible under disturbed soil.
“No algorithm for loyalty,” he said.
Paige nodded. “Maybe we shouldn’t build ones that forget that.”
Bugsy stirred in his sleep nearby, twitching paws chasing after dream squirrels.
That afternoon, Mika pulled out a shoebox she’d been working on for weeks.
Inside were slips of paper, each one folded carefully.
She handed it to Henry.
“It’s your turn,” she said. “You pick one.”
He looked confused but reached in.
The paper read:
“Tell me about a time you were brave.”
He smiled. “Is this homework?”
“It’s a memory box,” she said. “We’re saving pieces.”
Henry stared at the paper, thumb smoothing the crease.
“Well,” he said, “once I bought a motorcycle before I had a license. Rode it across the county line just to prove I could. That count?”
Mika giggled. “Did you get caught?”
“Twice.”
Bugsy barked once, like he approved of the story.
Henry picked another slip.
“What’s the first thing you remember about Bugsy?”
He went quiet.
“The day I brought him home, he fell asleep in my boot. Not next to it—in it. Like he thought it was a den.”
Mika smiled, her eyes soft.
“Did you know, even then, that he’d wait for you?”
“No,” Henry said. “But he did.”
That evening, Paige made soup in Henry’s kitchen.
Carrot and potato, with rosemary from her garden. The windows fogged up with steam and comfort. Henry chopped onions with slow precision while Bugsy lay beneath the table like a living footrest.
They ate by the fire, bowls warm in their hands.
“Feels like Sunday dinner,” Henry said.
“It is Sunday,” Paige replied.
“Then I guess it is.”
After the meal, Henry opened a drawer and pulled out a dusty binder. The front read:
“Emergency Plan: Henry & Bugsy”
He placed it on the table.
“I started this years ago,” he said. “In case I… didn’t wake up one day.”
Mika’s face fell, but she didn’t speak.
“It lists his vet. What he eats. What music he likes at night.” He chuckled. “You know he sleeps better with old jazz?”
Paige nodded.
“I want to update it,” Henry said. “With your number. With Mika’s name, if that’s okay. Just in case.”
“It’s more than okay,” Paige said softly.
Bugsy lifted his head.
Henry reached down and scratched behind his ear.
“We waited long enough, didn’t we, boy?”
That night, as Paige and Mika left, Bugsy walked them to the car. Not all the way—just to the edge of the porch light. That was as far as he ever went. He watched them drive off, tail still, ears forward.
Mika looked back through the rear window.
“He always watches,” she said.
“Some things,” Paige replied, “you never forget how to do.”
And some beings, she thought,
never forget who they’re watching for.
Part 8: “The First Snow”
Bugsy woke first.
It was the kind of stillness only snow could bring—soft and deep, pressing its hush into the bones of the house. He rose stiffly from the rug and limped to the window, where frost webbed the glass like lace.
Out beyond the porch, the world was white.
The tulip bulbs were hidden now. The path to the shed was gone. Even the old fence line looked unfamiliar under the hush of winter.
Bugsy let out a small huff.
Henry stirred next, blanket falling to the floor, joints creaking like tired floorboards. He shuffled to the window beside Bugsy, rubbed a clear patch with his palm, and stared out at the changed world.
“Well,” he said softly, “looks like we’ve made it to December.”
Bugsy leaned his head against Henry’s leg.
They stood like that a long while—man and dog watching the season settle in.
—
Paige brought firewood that afternoon, bundled in her trunk like treasure. Mika skipped behind her in a red wool hat with two mismatched pom-poms bouncing on top.
“It’s snowing!” she declared, as though no one had noticed.
Bugsy bounded down the porch steps to greet her—slower now, but with purpose.
“You like it, huh?” she asked, crouching down to let him lick her mitten. “You waited through summer. You waited through fall. Bet you were hoping for snow.”
He gave a single bark. Then sneezed.
Paige came up the steps behind them, cheeks pink, hair damp with flakes.
“I brought you a surprise,” she said to Henry.
“Oh?”
She held up a sealed envelope. “City council minutes. You’ve been approved.”
Henry blinked. “Approved for what?”
“Community honorary recognition. For ‘resilience, historical contribution, and preservation of place.’”
“That’s a mouthful.”
“It means,” Mika added, “they’re not allowed to take your house ever again. Even if the lights go off.”
Henry stared down at the envelope, silent.
Then he cleared his throat. “I don’t need plaques.”
“It’s not a plaque,” Paige said. “It’s protection. You’ve been seen. And you’ve been written down. That matters.”
He nodded once.
Then stepped aside to let them in.
—
Later that evening, after mugs of tea and bowls of soup, they played a game Mika had made up called “Back Then.”
It had one rule: everyone had to tell a story that started with the words “Back then…”
Mika went first.
“Back then,” she said, “I thought electric cars were the most important thing in the world.”
Paige raised an eyebrow. “They still kind of are.”
“Yeah,” Mika said. “But not more important than people.”
Henry laughed. “Amen, kid.”
He went next.
“Back then, I thought time only moved forward. Now I know it circles back when it needs to.”
Bugsy snorted softly from the hearth.
“Back then,” Paige said, “I thought helping meant fixing. But sometimes, it just means staying.”
They let that sit a moment.
Snow ticked against the window.
Bugsy let out a long sigh and rested his head on Mika’s socked feet.
And the world felt still in the best way.
—
That night, as they packed up to leave, Mika ran back in for one more thing.
She reached into her backpack and pulled out a small gift wrapped in newspaper.
“Don’t open it till morning,” she said.
Henry nodded solemnly, as if accepting an oath.
Bugsy walked them to the porch light again.
Same as always.
But this time, when Mika turned back at the car, she didn’t wave.
She just smiled.
A quiet, knowing smile.
As though she understood that goodbye wasn’t really needed anymore.
Not here.
Not now.
—
At dawn, Henry opened the package.
Inside was a small wooden plaque, carefully carved and painted.
In child’s handwriting, it read:
“This House Waited Too.”
Bugsy bumped his hand gently with his nose.
Henry set the plaque on the mantle.
Then he sat on the porch with his coffee and let the cold air bite his cheeks. The snow had stopped sometime before dawn. Everything was hushed again.
He looked at the old EV charger down the road, just barely visible through the trees.
And he thought of the wait.
Not with sorrow.
But with gratitude.
Because some waits are worth it.
Some waits become the story.