Part 7 – The Storm Inside
The air grew heavy that week, thick with humidity. In Iowa, August always seemed to end in storms. Nina could feel one coming—not only in the sky, but in her bones.
Pepper was slower now. She rose with effort, her back legs trembling as though they bore more than her weight. The children noticed. They were quiet about it, but Nina could see their worry shadowing the play.
“Maybe she’s just tired,” Eli said one morning, though his voice lacked conviction.
“Or maybe she’s sad,” Maren whispered, hugging Pepper close.
Nina stroked Pepper’s graying muzzle. “She’s not sad. She’s just carrying more years than she used to. We’ll carry the rest with her.”
But in the dark of night, Nina admitted to herself: she wasn’t sure how much more time they had.
One afternoon, clouds rolled in over Cedar Falls, green and swollen. The air smelled of ozone, sharp and electric. The children had built another maze of cardboard boxes, but Pepper had barely nudged through two turns before she lay down, panting heavily.
“She’s quitting,” Eli said, his voice sharp with frustration.
“She’s not quitting,” Nina said firmly. “Her body is telling her it’s time to rest.”
“But it’s not fair!” Eli’s face flushed red. “Other dogs can run! Other dogs can play!”
Maren flinched at his tone. Pepper lifted her head, ears twitching as if she knew the words were meant for her.
Nina knelt beside Eli, placing both hands on his shoulders. “You’re right—it’s not fair. But fairness isn’t promised to us. Love is. And we give it whether the game is fast or slow.”
Eli bit his lip, tears threatening. He turned away, fists clenched.
Nina’s heart cracked. She remembered Harold’s funeral, how Eli had thrown a rock at the ground outside the church, shouting, It’s not fair! That wound had never fully healed. And now Pepper’s weakness was pressing on the same bruise.
That night, the storm broke. Rain lashed the windows, thunder rattled the house. The children huddled under blankets, eyes wide with fear. Pepper lay at their feet, trembling with each crash of thunder.
“Grandma,” Maren whispered, “she’s scared.”
Nina pulled them all close—children and dog together—wrapping the quilt around them. “Shh. Listen,” she said softly. “That’s just the sky letting out its anger. It will pass.”
Eli buried his face against Pepper’s neck. “I don’t want her to go in a storm.”
“She won’t,” Nina promised, though her own chest ached with the weight of uncertainty.
Lightning split the sky, illuminating the room in a harsh, fleeting glow. In that flash, Nina saw Harold’s watch glint on her wrist. She thought of his calm voice during storms, how he used to say, The thunder is only reminding us we’re small. That’s not a bad thing.
She whispered the words aloud, and the children relaxed, just a little.
The storm lasted most of the night. Nina stayed awake, holding Pepper close, counting her breaths. By morning, the air was cool and washed clean, but Pepper seemed weaker. She didn’t rise when the children brought her a toy.
“Grandma,” Eli said, his voice trembling, “what if she can’t play anymore at all?”
Nina took a slow breath. “Then we find new ways. Even if it’s only lying beside her and telling her stories. That’s still play, if your heart’s in it.”
Maren curled up beside Pepper on the rug. “I’ll tell her the story of when she flew higher than the kites,” she said softly.
And she did—her little voice painting memories into the quiet morning, while Pepper’s eyes glimmered with trust.
Later that day, Nina led the children into the attic. Dust floated in the shafts of sunlight, the air thick with cedar and age. She opened a trunk and pulled out a quilt Harold’s grandmother had stitched—patches of worn fabric sewn together from shirts and dresses long gone.
“This,” Nina said, unfolding it, “was made from scraps. Things that were broken or finished. But see how beautiful it is now? Because someone took the time to love what was left.”
The children touched the quilt reverently. “It’s like Pepper,” Maren whispered.
“Yes,” Nina said. “She may not fly anymore, but every day with her is another piece of the quilt. Someday, when she’s gone, we’ll have something whole made out of all the little moments.”
Eli pressed his face against the fabric, silent tears slipping down his cheeks.
That night, after the children were asleep, Nina sat on the porch with Pepper at her feet. The cicadas sang again, the storm washed away.
“I don’t know how to prepare them,” she whispered into the dark. “Or myself.”
She thought she heard Harold’s voice in memory: You don’t prepare. You live. You carry each other until the carrying is done.
Pepper shifted, laying her head on Nina’s foot. Her breathing was uneven, but her eyes were calm. In their dark depth, Nina found something she could not name—acceptance, perhaps, or a reminder that love outlasts fear.
She stroked the dog’s fur, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
“Not yet,” she whispered. “Please, not yet.”
But she knew the truth. The storm inside was only beginning.
Part 8 – The Rally and the Fall
Two mornings after the storm, the world seemed strangely kind again. The sky over Cedar Falls was bright, the air crisp with the faintest touch of autumn. Nina woke to the sound of Pepper’s paws clicking across the floorboards—brisk, steady, almost jaunty.
Startled, she sat up in bed. Pepper stood at the doorway, tail wagging, eyes bright. For the first time in weeks, she looked like her old self.
“Good girl,” Nina whispered, tears pricking her eyes. “Good girl.”
By the time the children tumbled downstairs, Pepper was already nosing at the basket of toys, eager. Eli stopped short, mouth falling open.
“She’s better!” he shouted. “Look at her!”
Maren dropped to her knees, hugging Pepper tight. “See? She just needed rest.”
Nina smiled, though her heart ached with both relief and dread. She had seen this before—in Harold’s last summer, how he’d had a day where he walked around the yard, humming, strong as ever. A rally, the doctor had called it. The body’s last burst of borrowed strength.
But she said nothing to the children. Today, she would let them believe.
They rushed to Greenridge Park, frisbee in hand. Pepper trotted beside them, ears perked, tongue lolling happily. Neighbors waved, surprised to see the old dog so lively.
“Watch this!” Eli cried, winding up to throw.
“Wait,” Nina cautioned, but her words came too late.
The frisbee sailed, a bright arc against the morning sky. Pepper’s eyes followed, body tensing. For an instant, she looked like the dog she had always been—the queen of the park. She lunged forward, paws kicking up dirt, legs stretching.
Nina’s heart seized.
Pepper leapt—not high, not like before, but enough. Her teeth grazed the plastic, her body twisting, and she landed clumsily on the grass.
The children exploded in cheers. “She caught it!” Maren screamed. “She can still do it!”
Pepper trotted back, dropping the disc at their feet, tail wagging madly.
Nina bent over, breath shaking. She wanted to scold them, to warn them—but the joy on their faces was a salve too rare to strip away.
So she swallowed her fear. “All right,” she said softly. “One more. Then gentle games.”
They agreed, though their eyes gleamed with hope.
For the rest of the morning, they played “slow catch”—short, low throws that Pepper could chase at her pace. She nudged the discs back with her nose, barked when they clapped, wagged until her whole body swayed.
Nina sat on the blanket, Harold’s watch ticking steady on her wrist, her heart caught between joy and sorrow. This is the middle, she thought. Don’t miss it.
When the sun rose high, they packed up. Pepper panted heavily but still carried herself proudly, tail raised, as if she had proven something.
On the walk home, Eli’s face was glowing. “See, Grandma? She’s fine! She just needed a real throw.”
Nina didn’t answer. Her chest felt too heavy.
That night, the shadow fell.
It began with coughing. Harsh, rattling coughs that shook Pepper’s body, jolting her awake on the rug. Nina rushed to her side, stroking her, murmuring comfort, but the coughs came again and again.
The children stumbled from their beds, faces pale. “What’s happening?” Maren cried.
“She’s choking!” Eli shouted.
“No,” Nina said quickly, though her voice trembled. “It’s her heart. Sometimes it makes her lungs fill with fluid. She’s fighting to breathe.”
The words horrified the children, but she had no choice. Truth was better than silence.
They knelt beside Pepper, tears streaming, hands reaching to touch her. “It’s okay, girl,” Eli whispered fiercely. “We’re here.”
Pepper’s chest heaved, her eyes glazed with pain. For a terrifying minute, Nina thought this was the end.
But then, slowly, the coughing eased. Pepper sagged onto her side, exhausted, eyes fluttering closed. Her breaths were shallow, uneven—but they came.
“She’s okay?” Maren whispered.
“For now,” Nina said, her own tears falling unchecked.
They carried blankets to the living room and made a nest on the floor. The three of them curled around Pepper, unwilling to leave her side. Nina stroked her fur all night, whispering old hymns under her breath, the ones Harold had loved.
By dawn, Pepper was still alive.
The next day was somber. The children moved quietly, as though afraid of breaking the fragile peace. Pepper slept most of the time, barely lifting her head when they offered her water.
Eli sat cross-legged on the rug, staring at her. “She almost left us,” he whispered.
Nina sat beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Yes. And one day she will. But yesterday she gave us joy. That’s what we hold onto.”
“It hurts,” Eli said.
“It’s supposed to,” Nina replied softly. “That’s how you know love is real.”
Maren curled up against Nina, sniffling. “What if we don’t get another good day?”
Nina kissed her hair. “Then we treasure the ones we had. And we make the rest gentle.”
The words steadied her, even as her heart ached. She thought of Harold’s last burst of strength, how he had laughed in the yard that day, and how quickly the laughter had been replaced with silence. She knew Pepper’s rally meant the end was close.
But she wouldn’t let the children see only the shadow. Not yet.
That evening, Nina brought the cracked frisbee to the porch. The children sat beside her, Pepper stretched across their laps.
“Do you know why I keep this old thing?” Nina asked, turning the worn plastic in her hands.
“Because it’s Pepper’s,” Maren said.
“And Grandpa’s,” Eli added.
Nina nodded. “Yes. It reminds me of every throw, every leap, every cheer. But it also reminds me that nothing lasts forever—not frisbees, not games, not even the ones we love. What does last is the way we carry those memories.”
She placed the frisbee in Eli’s hands. “Someday, you’ll keep this. And when you do, I hope you’ll remember not just the leaps, but also the slow games, the gentle ones. Because those matter just as much.”
Eli’s eyes filled with tears. He clutched the disc tight.
Pepper stirred, lifting her head weakly. Her eyes met Nina’s—tired, loving, resigned.
And Nina knew: the time for preparing was nearly over.