Part 10: One More Winter
The first frost came early that year.
Thin and white, it crept across the yard overnight, icing the edges of the chicken wire and painting the last sunflowers with a layer of brittle lace. When Marlene stepped out onto the porch that morning, her breath puffed like smoke, and her knees ached before her second step.
Scout was already up—no longer sleeping in as he had during the worst of his healing months. He stood at the edge of the yard, posture tall and still, as if listening for something far away.
Marlene followed his gaze. But there was nothing. Just fog, fencing, and the outline of the old oak.
Still, she knew what he was waiting for.
A sign. A shift. A change.
And it came.
Just not in the way either of them expected.
That afternoon, she got the call.
Not from the hospital—but from Fremont.
“Marlene,” she said gently, “you might want to get checked again. I know you had tests, but… we’ve had other women your age. Fatigue, shortness of breath, dizziness… they don’t always show right away.”
Marlene didn’t argue.
She just stared at Scout, lying by the stove.
Lily tucked into his belly. Patch sprawled behind him. Benny curled protectively near Nudge.
They were a pack. Not a perfect one. But a true one.
And she was the center of it.
The old heart beating behind every bowl of food and folded blanket.
If something happened to her, who would keep them going?
The next morning, she made two appointments: one with the doctor, and one with a lawyer.
Colby came by after school, helped her sort the pantry and stack feed bags. Dana brewed tea in the kitchen. And Scout—who rarely asked for anything—rested his chin on Marlene’s knee and stayed there the whole time.
She ran her fingers over the ridge of his scar. “You already knew, didn’t you?”
His tail thumped, once.
The test results came back a week later.
Stage 2 congestive heart failure. Manageable with meds and monitoring—for now.
“I’m not dying tomorrow,” Marlene said aloud in the car. “But I’m not promised ten more years either.”
The wind rattled the windows. Scout sat in the backseat, silent.
When they pulled into the drive, she didn’t get out right away. She just sat there with her hands on the wheel, the cold creeping through the seams of her coat.
Scout climbed into the front seat beside her.
He didn’t nuzzle. Didn’t whine.
He just looked at her.
And she nodded.
That evening, she sat down with Dana and gave her the plan.
The house. The animals. Everything.
“If I go,” she said, “this place doesn’t shut down. It becomes a sanctuary. Scout stays with his family. The vet visits continue. The porch stays open. And the stories don’t stop.”
Dana blinked. “You think you’re going?”
“Someday. Maybe soon. Maybe not. But it’s time to prepare.”
Colby, listening from the stairs, said softly, “I can help feed them.”
Marlene smiled. “I know you can.”
Winter crept in like memory.
The frost stayed longer each morning.
Scout’s walks got shorter.
Nudge stopped venturing outside altogether, preferring the spot near the fire where his blanket had grown thin and sun-faded.
Patch got taller. Lily grew quieter.
Benny learned to sit still.
And Marlene began writing again.
Not just in the journal.
But letters. Dozens of them. One for each animal. One for Dana. One for Colby. Even one for Curtis, though she didn’t know if he’d ever read it.
Each one folded carefully, tied with twine, and tucked into a box labeled: If I’m not home.
On Christmas Eve, she woke to the sound of soft barking.
Not urgent. Not afraid.
Just calling.
Scout stood by the door.
She opened it for him without a word, and he stepped out onto the snow-dusted porch.
The world was quiet. Still. One of those moments when the whole planet seems to hold its breath.
She followed him barefoot, coat over her nightgown, down the steps, across the frozen grass.
He led her to the old oak tree.
And there, resting beneath its lowest branch, was Nudge.
His breathing was slow. But peaceful.
Marlene dropped to her knees.
Scout lay down beside the piglet, tucking his head close.
Lily and Patch appeared moments later, then Benny, forming a quiet ring.
No crying. No panic.
Just presence.
Nudge opened one eye. Met Marlene’s.
Then closed it for the last time.
They buried him under the tree the next morning.
Scout sat beside the small grave long after the others had gone in.
Marlene brought him his quilt, his bowl, and a cup of warm broth.
He didn’t eat.
But he rested.
When he finally returned to the house that evening, the snow had begun to fall again.
And his limp had returned—just slightly.
Like a ghost of memory.
In the final journal entry she wrote that winter, Marlene penned:
We don’t get to keep anything—not really.
We just get to hold it gently, care for it fiercely, and hope we leave it better.
Scout came here broken. I was broken, too.
Now he carries something sacred, stitched between his bones and bandages:
Proof that love—real love—doesn’t heal us all the way.
It just gives us something worth limping toward.
She passed the next spring.
Peacefully, they said.
In her sleep, they said.
Scout found her first.
Laid beside her for hours.
No howls. No sound.
Just stillness.
When Dana arrived, he looked up once, then returned his head to her chest.
They honored her wish.
The farmhouse stayed open.
The animals remained.
Scout led every new arrival to the oak tree before letting them inside.
He lived three more years.
Died on a Tuesday morning.
Under the tree.
Next to Nudge.
Wrapped in a blue bandage Marlene had kept in the drawer for “just in case.”