Part 8 – The Dog in the Delivery Van
The week before Christmas brought wind that slipped through cracks and tugged at bones. Delivery tips got smaller, traffic got worse, and the cold settled in like an unpaid bill.
Still, Tasha drove.
Tony curled in his usual spot, chin resting between the seats. Jayden had knitted him a tiny stocking—lopsided and green—which now hung from the rearview mirror with a candy cane inside.
“Just in case he wants to give a present too,” Jayden had said.
Tony had licked his cheek in reply.
—
The Bell Badge had gone from novelty to movement.
Local news did a follow-up segment. National outlets reached out. Someone started a fundraiser for single moms in the gig economy, naming it Tasha’s Route.
It all felt too big, too fast.
Tasha still woke at 5 a.m. to check her app queues. Still fretted over car repairs. Still counted out nickels for coffee. Fame didn’t fix the price of chicken thighs or the squeak in her back tire.
But when the day began and Tony climbed in, she felt anchored.
And that was enough.
—
One morning, she delivered groceries to an old house wrapped in plastic sheeting.
The woman who answered looked half her weight, wearing two coats and mittens indoors.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “My son usually shops for me. He’s stuck in Utah. Snowed in.”
Tony walked slowly to the woman, his steps almost reverent. He sat beside her, tail sweeping gently against her porch.
The woman didn’t bend. Didn’t cry.
She just reached down, touched his head, and whispered, “You’re the only warm thing I’ve touched all week.”
Tasha didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
That was the thing about Tony.
He made silence holy.
—
Back home, the heater broke again.
Tasha piled blankets onto Jayden’s bed and boiled water for tea they couldn’t afford to waste.
Tony lay curled between them, his body a barrier against the cold.
Jayden whispered into his fur, “Don’t worry. We’re not rich, but we’re whole.”
And somehow, Tasha believed that.
Even as she wore two pairs of socks and lay awake counting overdue notices in her head.
—
The next day, her van wouldn’t start.
Battery gone. Too cold, too old.
She stared at the ignition, heart hammering.
She had five deliveries scheduled. Two of them repeat customers. One of them, Mrs. Connelly.
Tasha slumped against the steering wheel.
“I’m gonna lose it all,” she whispered.
Then—her phone buzzed.
A message. From someone named Clarice Dunn.
Hi. I’m the woman who left the “LOVE W/ DELIVERY” sign. I saw your van on my way to work. Need a ride?
Tasha blinked.
Another message came in. Then another.
Within an hour, a convoy of strangers had offered their cars, their shifts, even a mechanic.
The Bell Badge wasn’t just hers anymore.
It was theirs.
—
Clarice arrived with jumper cables and hot coffee.
Tony sniffed her boots and wagged once.
“You’re taller than I imagined,” she said to him with a grin. “Also, warmer.”
Tasha laughed for the first time that day.
Felt something in her ribs loosen.
—
They made the deliveries.
Together.
Clarice drove. Tasha ran to doors. Tony followed, bringing his strange, quiet comfort to whoever answered.
Mrs. Connelly had a plate of shortbread waiting.
“Figured you’d come,” she said. “He wouldn’t let me nap. Just kept pacing like something sacred was on its way.”
—
That night, after Jayden fell asleep and Tony lay stretched across the floor, Tasha opened an envelope that had been left in her mailbox.
No return address.
Inside: a check for $1,000 and a note.
Not charity. Consider it a co-pay. He’s the best therapist I’ve ever had.
– The man in the windbreaker. You delivered chow mein two Tuesdays ago.
Tasha stared at the check.
Then at Tony.
Then back at the check.
She didn’t cry.
She just laid a hand on Tony’s back and whispered, “I hope you know what you’ve done. What you are.”
Tony blinked. His tail thumped once.
—
Christmas Eve brought quiet roads and full hearts.
Jayden made a card for Tony: a crayon drawing of their van with hearts in the headlights and a speech bubble over Tony’s head saying, “I remember you.”
He placed it by Tony’s bowl with a single gingerbread dog biscuit.
Tony sniffed it gently. Then sat beside it like it was treasure.
And it was.
Because it came from belief. From love. From the smallest boy who knew the biggest truth:
That being remembered was the rarest gift of all.
—
That night, Tasha lit a candle and sat on the front step, wrapped in a quilt.
The stars above were few, but clear.
Tony lay beside her.
And she whispered, “You’ve delivered something I didn’t know I needed.”
A pause.
Then she added, soft as a wish: “You’ve delivered me.”
He pressed against her leg, solid and warm.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t need to.
He knew.