🔹 PART 5 – The Numbers That Matter
Frank awoke at 4:45 the next morning, like he always did.
The sky outside was still dark — that blue-black color that only belonged to early risers and insomniacs. He sat up slow, careful not to disturb the warm lump curled near his legs. Waffles had crept onto the bed sometime in the night, old hips and all, and now lay snoring with his chin resting on Frank’s ankle.
Frank let him be.
For the first time in days, his chest didn’t feel like it was wrapped in rope. The world was still uncertain — bills, prescriptions, the slight wheeze in his lungs when the weather dipped — but something had shifted. Maybe not out there, but inside.
He got up, stretched his back, and walked into the kitchen. The familiar hum of the refrigerator greeted him. He turned on the coffee pot and stood there for a moment, watching the steam curl like smoke signals.
Then he did something he hadn’t done in a long time.
He sat at the kitchen table, pulled out a pad of paper, and wrote a list:
Things That Need Fixing
– Porch rail
– Waffles’ collar
– That loose roof shingle
– My pride (ha)
He tapped the pen against the pad and chuckled softly at himself.
The last one? That was the real job.
Later that day, Frank drove down to the bank on Broadway Avenue. The same one he’d used since before Evan was born. He didn’t like online stuff — too many passwords, too many ads telling him to refinance or “unlock retirement savings with just a click.”
Inside, the lobby smelled like printer paper and lemon polish. A young man in a tie approached with the same energy Evan used to have at twenty-five.
“Mr. DeSantis, right? What can we do for you today?”
Frank cleared his throat.
“I want to check what I got left in my old account. And… ask about any of those… uh, accounts for emergencies.”
“You mean high-yield savings or supplemental insurance-linked plans?”
Frank blinked. “Maybe.”
The young man smiled and led him to a desk.
As they sat, the conversation drifted through numbers — interest rates, minimum deposits, withdrawal terms. Frank didn’t understand half of it, but he nodded like he did. What he really cared about was this:
“If Waffles gets sick again, I want to know there’s something I can pull from. Something that doesn’t feel like beggin’ my own son for money.”
The banker paused.
Then softened.
“There’s an option for that. Something liquid. Easy access. Low penalty. Not huge gains, but safe. It’s how I cover my dog’s care, actually.”
Frank smiled. “You got a dog?”
“Golden retriever. Name’s Jerry. Eats better than I do.”
Frank leaned back. “Then you get it.”
They shook hands. Frank walked out with a brochure, a fresh printout of his account, and something else he hadn’t carried in a while: a plan.
That Sunday, Evan showed up just before noon with a toolbox and a bag of groceries.
“I brought turkey breast,” he said. “And rye. And that spicy mustard you like.”
Frank blinked. “You remembered that?”
Evan grinned. “You think I didn’t notice when you used to eat three of those sandwiches in one sitting?”
They ate on the porch while Waffles lay at their feet, one paw wrapped in gauze. Every now and then, he let out a contented sigh.
“You know,” Frank said between bites, “he’s getting expensive.”
Evan smirked. “Aren’t we all?”
Frank chewed for a bit, then added, “Went to the bank.”
Evan raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
Frank nodded. “Set something aside. For the next time something happens. To him. Or me.”
Evan’s smile faded into something softer.
“Good,” he said. “That’s good.”
They didn’t say it out loud, but both were thinking the same thing: they were planning for time now. Not just surviving it.
After lunch, they fixed the porch rail together. Evan did most of the bending and hammering. Frank handed him tools, offered advice, and grunted whenever Evan tried to shortcut something.
“You know,” Frank said, “you’re not half-bad at this.”
“I watched a video on it,” Evan admitted. “And read the manual.”
Frank shook his head. “You always did think you could out-study the world.”
Evan tapped in the final nail. “That’s what you raised me to do.”
Frank looked at him, then down at the old wooden step where Evan used to sit with scraped knees and tears in his eyes.
“No,” he said. “I raised you to know when it’s worth getting your hands dirty.”
Evan sat down beside him. They looked out over the yard, where the grass was already getting too long again.
“You know what the hardest part was?” Evan asked.
Frank waited.
“When I started at the firm. There was a guy there — Greg something. Ivy League. Money since birth. He found out you were a garbage man and asked me if it embarrassed me.”
Frank stiffened.
“What’d you say?”
Evan looked down.
“I said no. I said you were the most honest man I knew, and that you showed up every damn day no matter what. I said he could learn something from that.”
Frank’s throat went tight.
“You say it like it was easy.”
“It wasn’t. But it was true.”
Frank nodded slowly.
Then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the old collar — Waffles’ first one. Frayed, faded, and still holding a trace of the boy who picked it out all those years ago.
“I’m gonna keep this,” he said.
“Why?” Evan asked.
Frank looked at him.
“Because it reminds me who I am. And who I still get to be.”
Evan didn’t answer. He just reached down and rubbed Waffles’ good ear.
And for the first time in a long, long time, Frank felt something strange — a quiet peace that didn’t feel borrowed, or brief, or fragile.
It felt earned.