Part 10 – “The Dog Who Sat at the Polling Station”
Spring came back slow and sure.
The kind of spring that coaxes blooms from cracked sidewalks and warms bones too long stiff with waiting. The azaleas returned, bright as ever, and the town of Troy, Alabama stirred into its own kind of awakening.
The Justice Ray Express rolled again.
New paint. New tires. New faces behind the wheel.
The old students—Maribel, Malik, Danielle—had scattered to colleges, jobs, futures far beyond Pike County. But they left behind a legacy stitched into every stitch of that van.
A new generation had picked up the keys.
And Darnell Willis? He’d stopped driving.
But he hadn’t stopped showing up.
—
He sat on the same bench every Thursday beneath the oak tree, a little slower, a little quieter now. The flannel coat—Leonard’s—rested on his lap, even in warm weather. The collar was gone, buried deep in the roots, but the memory lived in the weave of the fabric, in the places where the threads had worn thin from holding too much truth.
That Thursday in April, a little girl wandered up to him.
Big brown eyes, pink barrettes, holding her grandmother’s hand.
“Are you the man with the dog?” she asked.
Her grandmother looked flustered. “I told her the story—of the statue, of the dog who waited. I didn’t mean to confuse her.”
But Darnell smiled.
“No, ma’am,” he said gently, eyes twinkling. “She’s not confused. She’s remembering.”
He bent slightly and looked the child in the eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m the man who got to wait with the dog.”
—
That summer, the Justice Ray Express was invited to Montgomery.
A statewide voting rights summit.
Darnell declined the ride, but he sent something along: the laminated photo of Leonard and Justice, and the child’s drawing of the dog in front of the polling station.
They pinned it up on the stage beside the speakers’ podium.
One congresswoman wept.
Another quoted Leonard’s line: “Every soul deserves a say.”
It was printed on every badge, every brochure.
No one had to explain what it meant anymore.
—
That fall, on the first day of early voting, Darnell didn’t come to the polling station.
For the first time in many years, his chair beneath the oak stayed empty.
People noticed.
The students whispered.
The poll workers looked toward the steps, waiting for the familiar slow stride, the hat tipped in greeting, the quiet nod.
But he didn’t come.
At dusk, Malik drove out to Darnell’s house.
The lights were off.
The mailbox full.
And on the front porch, folded neatly, was the coat.
—
They held the memorial on a crisp October afternoon, just before another election.
No casket. No fanfare.
Just chairs under the tree and the sound of leaves falling like memories onto grass.
The van was there, parked behind the bench.
The mural stood tall. The statue gleamed.
A child read the letter Darnell had once written and pinned to the wall.
Another read the note from the stranger—the Friend—about Leonard’s sandwich and silence.
And Malik, standing last, spoke from the heart.
“He told us stories,” he said. “He gave us the van. He gave us our voices. But most of all… he gave us back someone we never knew we’d lost.”
He paused, his voice catching.
“And now he’s with him. With both of them.”
He pointed toward the statue.
“Still waiting. Still watching. Still reminding us.”
—
That evening, after everyone had gone, a breeze passed through the tree.
It ruffled the edge of the coat draped over the bench.
And somewhere in the stillness, footsteps could be imagined.
Soft ones.
Four-legged.
Circling once.
Laying down.
Keeping vigil.
Just like always.
—
Epilogue
The Justice Ray Express still runs.
There’s a plaque inside now, mounted beside the driver’s seat.
It reads:
In honor of Leonard Ray, who waited with dignity.
In honor of Justice, who watched with loyalty.
In honor of Darnell Willis, who remembered—and helped us all walk through the door.
And beneath that, in bold letters:
Every soul deserves a say.
The End.