Part 4: Storm Warning
The wind came first.
It curled under the porch steps and rustled the hem of Marlene’s nightgown as she stepped out barefoot, coffee forgotten on the kitchen table. Her eyes squinted toward the fence, where the oak tree stood sentinel over three resting forms.
Scout. Nudge. Benny.
All unmoving. All silent.
But the air had changed—she could feel it in her knees, in the heaviness of her chest, the way every old window in the house had started to creak by midafternoon. Storm air. Thick with pressure, memory, and something unsettled.
She called out gently, not wanting to break the spell: “Scout…”
He lifted his head first.
Then Benny.
Nudge didn’t move.
She walked out barefoot through the dew-wet grass, heart skipping.
Scout stood when she neared, placing himself between her and the piglet.
“It’s alright,” she murmured, reaching past him.
Nudge wasn’t hurt—just asleep. But not the kind of nap where the body flinches and dreams flicker behind the eyes. This was deep rest, the kind living things fall into only when they know they are absolutely safe.
Marlene placed her hand on Scout’s back. “Storm’s coming, love. Time to bring everyone in.”
By evening, the sky had bruised to a sickly gray. Clouds spun and folded above the treetops. The chickens had already roosted early, and Benny paced the porch with growing unease.
He was the first to hear it—long before the thunder. A rumble too deep to be sky.
Trucks.
Marlene knew the sound too. She hadn’t heard it in years, but some noises stay stitched in the fabric of a place. Big tires. Loose muffler. A backfire pop like fireworks too close to the house.
Her brother’s truck.
She stepped back inside and reached for the drawer beneath the sink. Not for a weapon. Just her old flip phone. The one she only charged when she had a reason to call someone she didn’t want to.
The screen lit up.
No messages. Just dust.
She didn’t call.
Just stood in the kitchen and waited.
The truck pulled up slow. Gravel crackled. Headlights off.
A tall man stepped out. Too thin for his height. Limping. Ball cap pulled low.
He didn’t knock.
Just opened the screen door like he’d done a thousand times as a boy.
“Marlene.”
Her name landed like a stone.
She hadn’t seen Curtis in nearly eight years—not since he’d tried to take their father’s tools and sell them for scrap. She hadn’t heard from him since he’d left town with a dog chain still trailing from his truck bed.
Now here he was, stepping into her kitchen like nothing had happened.
“I heard you been collecting animals,” he said, looking around. “Figured I’d stop by.”
Scout stood in the hallway. Still. Watching.
“Not your place,” Marlene said.
Curtis sniffed. “It was once.”
“That was a long time ago.”
He took a step closer. “You always did like broken things. Like Ma.”
Marlene’s face didn’t change, but her voice dropped a degree. “You leave her out of this.”
He glanced toward the door. “That piglet still limping? I seen it over by Leo’s place. Told him he should’ve let it be. World doesn’t fix everything, Mar.”
She stepped forward, chin high. “You didn’t come here for the pig.”
He shrugged. “Heard you got a pit bull again.”
“That’s Scout.”
“Scout,” he repeated, voice flat. “Didn’t think you’d go for one of those again after—”
“Don’t,” she said sharply. “Don’t bring up Buck.”
Curtis tilted his head. “Just saying, I remember the last time a dog bit someone on this property.”
Scout didn’t growl, didn’t bark.
But he moved.
One slow step forward. Then another.
Curtis noticed.
“You train him to hate family, too?”
“He’s not the one who left,” she said.
Outside, the thunder cracked hard and close. Rain began to ping against the roof.
Curtis stepped back toward the door. “You always were better at animals than people.”
“And you were always better at excuses than apologies.”
He looked like he wanted to say more. Then didn’t.
He left without slamming the screen door, which somehow made it worse.
That night, the rain fell sideways.
The wind tore at the trees. The power flickered, then vanished entirely.
Marlene lit the oil lamp in the kitchen, the same one she used during winter storms when Walter was still alive. She placed it near the window and watched Scout, who stood pressed against the glass, ears flicking.
Nudge lay bundled in a towel-lined box near the hearth. Benny paced restlessly, pausing now and then to lean into Scout’s shoulder as if asking, Is this the part where everything comes undone again?
Scout didn’t move. He was a statue. Waiting. Watching.
Like he remembered.
At midnight, the storm surged.
A branch cracked. The side gate blew open.
And Benny lost it—lunging for the door, barking, teeth bared.
Scout barked too—not in fear, but command.
Marlene grabbed her coat. “Stay,” she told them.
But when she opened the back door, Scout squeezed past her, slipping into the wet dark.
She found him by the oak tree, soaked but standing firm.
He was facing the open gate.
Behind it, something moved.
A figure—slouched, hunched, dragging something behind.
Curtis.
Holding a plastic crate in one hand.
Scout stood between him and the porch.
Marlene raised her voice over the wind. “Curtis! What the hell are you doing?”
He lifted the crate.
Inside, two trembling puppies.
“Was gonna dump ‘em,” he said. “Figured the flood would take ‘em anyhow.”
Marlene’s chest went cold. “You brought them here to drown?”
Curtis didn’t speak.
Scout took another step forward, eyes locked.
Curtis looked at him.
Then at Marlene.
Then—almost ashamed—he set the crate down in the grass and backed away.
Didn’t say a word.
Just walked into the dark.
Scout didn’t chase him.
He turned to the crate instead.
And laid down beside it.
Shielding it from the rain.