Part 6: The Cold Comes Early
By mid-November, the wind had turned mean in Newark.
It rattled loose shutters and sliced through jackets like paper. Jack wrapped Rex in an old Marine Corps blanket when they sat out on the porch, the one with frayed edges and a faded Semper Fi stitched into the corner. The dog didn’t seem to mind the cold. But Jack did.
His joints stiffened earlier now. The cold settled into his bad leg like rust in an old hinge. And his blood sugar had been off all week—shaky hands, dry mouth, that heavy fog behind the eyes that made reading or thinking a chore.
He skipped dinner two nights in a row without meaning to.
Sometimes it was easier to sleep than eat.
Sometimes the idea of making food just felt… too much.
On a Thursday, his power flickered twice in the afternoon. By nightfall, the heat was gone completely.
Jack called the landlord.
No answer.
He didn’t bother a second time. He knew the drill—”I’ll send someone Monday” really meant “I’ll forget until Christmas.”
Instead, he filled two hot water bottles from the kettle and laid one beside Rex’s ribs. The other he pressed between his own feet as he sat in the recliner, wrapped in two flannel shirts and an old army coat.
They stayed like that for hours, breathing in sync.
Outside, the wind howled.
Inside, two old soldiers waited for morning.
On Saturday, the letter arrived.
It wasn’t handwritten.
Typed. Stamped.
Ohio Division of Veterans Affairs.
He knew what it was before he opened it.
Dear Mr. Raines,
We regret to inform you that due to restructuring of the disability benefit tiers under the state allocation model, your monthly stipend will be temporarily reduced.
We appreciate your service.
Please contact our office if you have questions.
Jack read it three times. Not because he didn’t understand.
Because he couldn’t believe the cold could keep coming from so many directions.
He didn’t tell anyone.
There wasn’t anyone to tell.
But that night, he reached under his bed and pulled out the shoebox again.
Inside, next to the old collar and the ribboned medal no one ever asked about, was a manila envelope.
Unopened.
His discharge summary. Medical records. And a final note from his commanding officer, handwritten.
He unfolded it now.
The paper had yellowed around the creases.
“Raines, I don’t know if you’ll ever want to read this. Hell, maybe you won’t. But I want it said: you did your job. More than that. You held the line. You saved lives. Don’t let the silence afterward fool you into thinking it didn’t matter. It did.”
— Capt. V. Morrison
Jack stared at the signature.
He hadn’t thought about Morrison in years.
And suddenly, all he could think was how loud the silence had been ever since.
That Sunday, a knock came at the door.
Three knocks. Hesitant. Not the landlord. Not the mailman.
Jack opened it slow.
Ms. Holloway stood there—scarf wrapped to her ears, cheeks flushed pink from the wind. She held a Tupperware dish wrapped in foil. Her car idled at the curb.
“I hope this isn’t weird,” she said, smiling nervously. “But the kids made thank-you cards, and I figured you might want some real food for once.”
He blinked.
“Ma’am, I—”
“It’s just beef stew. No onions. My grandma’s recipe.”
She handed it to him, then waved as she headed back to her car. “You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Raines.”
Jack stood in the doorway for a long time after she left.
Then he looked down.
Rex was sitting beside him, watching.
Not wagging. Not whining.
Just watching.
They ate together that night. Jack heated the stew slowly, spooned out a portion for Rex—just the soft parts, no bones—and sat at the kitchen table like it was 20 years ago and his mother was still alive.
He didn’t talk.
Didn’t need to.
Rex’s presence was enough.
The house was still cold. But it didn’t feel quite so empty.
Later, as Jack settled into the chair by the window, he looked over at the dog curled by the heater.
The breathing was slower now. More deliberate.
Each rise and fall a little smaller.
Jack reached out a hand.
“Still with me, buddy?”
Rex didn’t open his eyes.
But his tail thumped once on the hardwood floor.
Once.
Just once.