Part 9 – “The Dog Who Sat at the Polling Station”
Thanksgiving came with the first real cold snap.
The kind that stiffened joints and reminded Darnell Willis how long he’d been walking this earth. But he didn’t mind the ache this year. It was a good ache—the kind that follows a long day’s work, a full heart, a life leaning toward meaning.
The Justice Ray Express was parked behind the church that morning, its tires wet with frost. Inside, Danielle and Malik were arranging boxes of canned goods and grocery store turkeys for the annual food drive.
“We’ve got voter forms in every bag,” Danielle said proudly.
Malik grinned. “And mini pie charts explaining local elections. Pumpkin spice democracy.”
Darnell chuckled and gave Malik a playful swat with his glove.
Later, when the sun broke through the clouds, families began arriving—some on foot, some by bike, a few in old sedans held together with tape and prayer.
One woman hugged Darnell so tight he had to lean on the van afterward.
“You don’t remember me,” she whispered, “but I remember you. You taught me to read maps in tenth grade. You told me I was smart. No one had ever said that.”
She held up her bag. “I registered today. For my mama. For me.”
And for Leonard, Darnell thought.
But he didn’t say it.
—
That evening, after the tables were folded and the leftover pies divided up, Darnell walked alone to the municipal building.
The lights were off.
No crowd. No van. Just him and the wind.
He climbed the steps and sat where Justice had always sat—top left, closest to the door.
The stone was cold beneath him.
He rested his hands on his knees and looked out over the quiet town square.
It was then that he noticed something new.
A small bronze statue had been added near the base of the oak tree.
Simple. Unadorned.
A dog, sitting alert, one ear perked, the other folded down.
No pedestal. No fanfare.
Just a small engraving at its base:
“Justice — He Waited.”
Darnell didn’t cry this time.
He smiled.
And whispered, “Good boy.”
—
Winter settled in.
The Justice Ray Express made fewer rounds in December, but the kids found other ways to keep the mission alive. Voter education sessions at the rec center. Storytime at the library featuring books on civil rights. Even a podcast started by Malik and Danielle called “Steps to the Door.”
Darnell was their first guest.
He spoke slowly, carefully, choosing his words the way one chooses seeds before planting.
“I used to think history was something behind us,” he said. “Turns out, it’s the ground we’re standing on.”
—
On the last night of the year, Darnell stood again at the mural on Pine Street.
Someone had strung a single strand of Christmas lights along the top of the brick wall, casting a soft glow over Leonard’s painted face and the eternal gaze of Justice.
In his pocket, Darnell carried a folded slip of paper.
He pinned it gently to the corner of the mural with a thumbtack.
Then stepped back.
On the paper, written in his own unsteady hand:
You are not forgotten.
Your voice still echoes in every footstep toward the door.
— D.W.
He turned to go.
But before he reached the sidewalk, he heard it.
A sound too familiar to be imagined.
Not a bark.
Not a growl.
Just the soft exhale of a dog settling into place.
He turned.
Nothing there.
Just wind. Leaves.
And the statue under the tree, catching the light.
Still waiting.
Still watching.
Still reminding them all.