Part 7 – “The Dog Who Sat at the Polling Station”
The storm broke just before dawn.
Rainwater still glistened on the streets of Troy, Alabama, puddles reflecting the streetlights like little forgotten stars. The air felt scrubbed, raw with promise. And before the sun even crested the horizon, the Justice Ray Express was humming.
Election Day.
Darnell sat in the passenger seat, hat in his lap, coat buttoned despite the warm air. His bones ached something fierce, but his spirit felt light, almost untethered.
The van rolled past quiet homes and darkened storefronts, slowing near the church, the firehouse, the vacant lot where Leonard used to sleep.
By six-thirty, they were parked in front of the polling station.
Justice wasn’t there.
But he was.
In the paint. In the rhythm of footfalls. In the silence just before the doors opened.
—
By seven, the line had already formed. The students set up the table, passed out coffee and stickers. Danielle handed out pocket Constitutions. Malik, now a full-time volunteer, ran the clipboard station with sharp efficiency.
Darnell stood at the top of the steps, watching the voters come.
A father holding his daughter’s hand.
An elderly man with an oxygen tank.
A young woman in a fast-food uniform.
One by one, they passed beneath the mural. Some paused, nodding toward the painted dog with one ear bent and amber eyes that seemed to follow them inside.
And then—
A boy stepped forward. No more than 10. Tall for his age, lanky like Leonard had once been.
He held a framed photo tight to his chest.
The polling supervisor frowned. “Are you with someone, sweetheart?”
The boy pointed toward the van, where a man stood with his hand over his heart.
“My uncle said I had to bring this. Said he wanted to vote, but he can’t leave the hospital.”
He held the photo up.
It was Leonard.
Young, laughing, eyes bright and careless.
The room went still.
Darnell moved first.
He stepped down, took the boy’s hand, and guided him up the steps.
“Your uncle was a friend of Leonard’s?” he asked gently.
The boy nodded. “Said they used to talk under a bridge. Said Leonard helped him write his first voter form, even though he never got to use his own.”
Darnell felt something in his chest twist and release.
“Well,” he said softly, “then I’d say Leonard just made it through the door after all.”
—
By noon, they’d registered over 100 voters.
A record.
And still they came.
The Justice Ray Express ran loops through town, driven now by Eli, who’d returned from Atlanta just for the day. Maribel helped translate ballots for new citizens. The energy was electric—joyful, solemn, defiant.
Darnell sat for a while beneath the oak tree, watching it all.
He unwrapped the collar one last time.
Ran his thumb over the rusted buckle.
Then, with trembling fingers, he slipped it around the base of the tree—not tight, but firm. A silent offering. A circle closed.
When he looked up, a woman stood nearby, eyes red-rimmed, holding her phone.
“Is this… is this the dog from the stories?” she asked.
He nodded. “Justice.”
She smiled through her tears.
“I never got to vote before. Today, I did.”
—
That evening, as the sun dipped low and the final ballots slid into their boxes, Darnell walked the perimeter of the building. Slowly. Deliberately.
He stopped where Justice used to sit—top step, left side, facing the door.
He sat there himself now.
Same posture. Same stillness.
The mural cast its long shadow across the wall.
And he whispered, just loud enough for the wind to carry:
“You waited long enough. I see you now.”
—
As the last car pulled away and the sky deepened to blue, Darnell looked toward the far corner of the lot.
Just for a second, he thought he saw him.
The silhouette of a dog.
Sitting.
Watching.
Waiting.
But then it vanished into the dark.
And in its place, the light above the polling station flickered on.
A soft, steady glow.
Holding the door open.