Part 7: The Last Walk
The next morning came quietly.
No wind. No frost. Just that soft, pale light that made everything look older.
Jack was already up when the sun crept across the kitchen floor. He’d been awake since 4:00 a.m., sitting at the table, hands wrapped around an empty mug, listening to the tick of the wall clock and the wheeze of the space heater.
Rex hadn’t stirred.
He still lay curled in his usual spot, his head on the folded Marine Corps blanket, eyes closed, chest rising slow and shallow.
Jack leaned over and placed a hand gently on his side.
Still breathing.
Still here.
But just barely.
By mid-morning, Jack had made a decision.
He shuffled to the closet, pulled down the leash—the old one with the frayed edges, still looped the way it had been in Kandahar—and clicked it softly onto Rex’s collar.
The dog lifted his head. Eyes cloudy. One ear sagging.
“You up for a walk?” Jack asked.
No bark. No tail wag.
But Rex slowly rose to his feet, legs trembling, paws sliding slightly on the worn linoleum.
They moved slow.
Out the front door, down the three cracked steps, and toward the street. Jack didn’t bother with his cane. He used the leash like a lifeline—anchored by the weight of memory more than muscle.
The walk to Veterans Park took twenty-five minutes.
Jack stopped three times to catch his breath. Rex stopped five, each time sitting gently like his bones might shatter if they bent too fast.
But they made it.
The old stone bench was still there, cold and empty under the bare November trees. Jack brushed the leaves off and sat down slow.
Rex laid beside him without command. Without effort. Just as he always had.
They stayed there a long time.
Jack spoke quietly. Not to Rex, really. But through him. As if the dog was a channel to something Jack didn’t know how to reach on his own.
He spoke of Torres—how he never got to finish his letter to his wife.
He spoke of Mancini—who always whistled the same Sinatra tune on patrol.
He spoke of Davis—who’d lost his eye but still sent Christmas cards until 2017, then stopped.
He spoke of the heat. The silence. The moment he knew they’d all been forgotten.
When the wind picked up again, Jack stood.
Rex didn’t.
He tried. He shifted his weight forward. Tried to brace with his front paws. But his hind legs gave out, and he slumped sideways, chest heaving with the effort.
Jack knelt beside him.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I got you.”
He wrapped his arms gently around Rex’s middle and lifted—slow, careful, every tendon in his back screaming. He didn’t care.
He carried Rex the whole way home.
By the time they got back, the sky was turning steel-gray. Snow in the air. The kind that didn’t fall yet—but promised it would soon.
Jack laid Rex on the folded blanket by the heater and unhooked the leash.
The dog didn’t move.
Jack sat beside him on the floor, legs stretched out, back against the cabinet. He didn’t speak. Just ran his fingers slowly through the thick fur at the dog’s neck.
Rex turned his head slightly. Just enough to press his nose against Jack’s palm.
And Jack closed his eyes.
Later, when the light had faded and the street outside had gone quiet, Rex gave a long, shallow exhale.
Then another.
Then none.
Jack stayed beside him. Minutes. Maybe hours. Time lost meaning.
He didn’t cry.
Not yet.
He just placed a hand on Rex’s chest and whispered the words he hadn’t dared say in twelve years.
“Thank you… for bringing me home.”