Part 5 – The Last Milk Run
Two mornings later, Clayton decided to tackle the middle of the list—streets that curled around the north side of town like an old riverbank.
The sky was overcast, the kind of pale gray that made the houses look older, softer around the edges. A faint drizzle hung in the air, and the smell of wet pavement reminded Clayton of the winters when milk froze in the bottles before he could get them to the door.
Moochie trotted ahead, unbothered by the damp. The dog’s gait had a purpose now, as if he knew this wasn’t just scavenging anymore—it was work.
The first stop was Helen Travers, a retired schoolteacher who’d once kept a jar of toffees for “good customers.”
Her porch light was on, though it was morning, and a rocking chair sat empty by the rail.
When she opened the door, she blinked twice before her face broke into a smile.
“Clayton Briggs. Lord have mercy, I thought you’d gone to Florida or somewhere foolish like that.”
“Still here,” he said. “Thought I’d make a delivery, just for old times’ sake.”
She took the package—Half Gallon Whole Milk, Two Apples, Small Loaf Brown Bread—and her hands lingered on the box.
“My neighbor’s boy is coming over later. He’s been helping me since… well, since my hip gave out.” She tilted her head. “You always did know when someone needed something.”
Clayton only smiled, but the words sat in his chest long after they left.
The next stop, Marvin Cross, was one he’d been looking forward to. Marvin had been a barber for fifty years, and Clayton had never left his shop without hearing at least three pieces of gossip.
The building was still there—same striped pole by the door—but the window was dusty, and a “Closed” sign hung inside.
A man sweeping the sidewalk next door glanced up.
“You looking for Marvin?”
“Yeah. We go way back.”
The man leaned on his broom. “He passed last spring. Stroke.”
Clayton felt the air go heavy. He murmured something polite, but his voice sounded far away in his own ears. He set the package down on the shop step anyway—1 Quart Buttermilk, 2 Jelly Doughnuts from Baxter’s (back when Baxter’s existed).
Moochie nudged the box with his nose, then looked up at him, tail still.
“I know, boy,” Clayton whispered. “I know.”
By the time they reached the Jefferson place, the drizzle had turned to real rain. Mrs. Jefferson opened the door wearing a rain bonnet and laughed when she saw them.
“You’re soaked,” she said. “Come in before you drown.”
Inside, the air smelled like cinnamon and coffee. A fire crackled in the woodstove, and Moochie sprawled on the rug as if he’d been doing it all his life.
Clayton handed her the package—1 Gallon Whole Milk, Bag of Sugar, Sack of Pecans.
“Still making those pies?” he asked.
Her eyes crinkled. “Only for special occasions.”
They drank coffee at her kitchen table, the kind with a vinyl tablecloth that stuck slightly to your elbows. She talked about her grandchildren, her late husband, the church choir. When Clayton finally stood to leave, she put her hand on his and said softly, “It’s good to see you making the rounds again. The town feels different when you’re out there.”
Walking home in the rain, Clayton realized his legs were trembling. The route wasn’t long, but it had weight now—every stop carried something more than a package.
Halfway back, Moochie stopped at a corner, ears swiveling. Another drone was coming in low.
Clayton followed the dog’s gaze. The package descended in front of a house he didn’t recognize—new siding, fresh paint. A name on the label he didn’t know.
They stood there for a long moment, rain dripping from the brim of his cap.
“Guess not all my people are here anymore,” Clayton said finally. But as he turned away, the thought lodged in his mind—maybe the run wasn’t just about who was left. Maybe it was also about who’d come since.
That night, he spread the list on the kitchen table. Moochie sat beside him, watching as Clayton added a few question marks next to certain names, and—without meaning to—a couple of new ones.
The Last Milk Run was starting to look less like an ending, and more like something else.
Part 6 – The Last Milk Run
The sun returned the next morning, bright and sharp, the kind of light that made even the chipped paint on old fences seem deliberate.
Clayton laced his boots slower than usual, rubbing at the ache in his knees. The rain from yesterday had settled deep into them, but he told himself that was no reason to skip a day.
Moochie, of course, was already at the door, head cocked toward the faint far-off hum of the first drone.
The package came down in front of a small white house at the edge of town—one Clayton knew better than most. The Lambert place.
Harold Lambert had been one of the kindest customers on the route. Back when Clayton’s first truck broke down, Harold had lent him his own pickup for a week without asking for a dime.
Clayton still remembered how Harold’s wife, June, used to send him home with a jar of her chow-chow relish every fall.
He walked up the path now, package in hand—1 Gallon Whole Milk, Two Jars Pickling Spices, Bag of Onions—and saw the door swing open before he could knock.
A young woman stood there, hair pulled into a messy bun, eyes wary. “Can I help you?”
Clayton cleared his throat. “I was looking for Harold or June Lambert.”
The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. June passed five years ago. Harold last winter. They were my grandparents.”
The words landed heavy in his chest. “I see. I… used to deliver their milk.”
Something softened in her face. “You must be Clayton. Grandpa talked about you.”
She invited him in, and the moment he stepped through the doorway, the scent hit him—sharp, sweet, unmistakable. Chow-chow relish.
“My mom still makes it,” the woman said when she saw his expression. “She learned from Grandma.”
Clayton swallowed hard. “Your grandmother gave me a jar every year. I never let a winter go without it.”
The young woman hesitated, then went to the kitchen and returned with a small jar, the lid sealed tight, the label written in careful blue ink: June’s Chow-Chow – 2024.
Clayton turned it over in his hands. “She kept me fed more than once, you know. Back when money was… well, scarce.”
The woman smiled faintly. “Then I think she’d want you to have this.”
Back outside, Moochie walked close to his leg, tail brushing his knee like he knew the ache wasn’t just in the bones today.
They made two more stops—pleasant, warm, full of laughter—but the Lambert house stayed with him.
That evening, Clayton sat at the kitchen table with the jar in front of him. He didn’t open it. He just looked at it, the way a man might look at a photograph of a friend long gone.
Moochie rested his chin on the table’s edge, eyes on the jar too, as if he understood it was something worth guarding.
Clayton reached out, ruffling the dog’s fur. “We’re not just carrying groceries, are we, boy? We’re carrying the pieces of what’s left.”
The dog’s tail thumped once.
He looked at the list again. Tomorrow’s route would take him past the church, the school, and the house that had once belonged to his own parents. He hadn’t walked up that path in over twenty years.
His pencil hovered over the name for a long time before he finally underlined it.