Part 6 – No Detour This Time
It happened just before dawn.
Roscoe let out a sound Hank had never heard from him before — not a bark, not a whine, but something between a gasp and a groan. A sound that didn’t belong in this world.
Hank was out of the cab before his boots were fully laced.
Roscoe lay stiff in the gravel, eyes wide, legs twitching like he was running in a dream he couldn’t wake from. Scout stood beside him, head low, tail still.
“Tyler!” Hank shouted. “Something’s wrong—he’s not coming out of it!”
Tyler was already running from the truck, medical bag in hand. “How long’s he been like this?”
“I don’t know—I just heard him. One second he was breathing, next—this.”
Tyler knelt beside the dog and checked his gums. “Pale. Real pale. His sugar’s bottomed out again. That dose wasn’t enough.”
He pulled out a second emergency syringe. “We’re too far from any town. The map showed one vet, twenty miles east, but it’s a risk.”
“Then we don’t risk it,” Hank said, already cradling Roscoe in his arms. “We go.”
They laid Roscoe gently across the passenger seat, bundled in the army blanket. Scout curled up at his feet, refusing to move. His eyes never left Roscoe’s face.
Truck 73 rumbled to life.
The road was winding and broken in places. Each pothole felt like a sin Hank had no right to commit against the dog who’d never left his side.
He pushed the old truck harder than he had in years. The gas gauge dipped low. The heat sputtered. But he didn’t let up.
“This engine dies,” Hank muttered, “it dies with us.”
Tyler called ahead to the vet clinic. A young woman answered.
“Dr. Elkins,” she said. “We’re barely open but we’ll wait. Just… drive safe, okay?”
Hank didn’t answer.
He was too busy racing time.
Ten miles out, Roscoe let out another cry. This one thin and hoarse. Hank reached over, rubbed his head.
“Hang on, boy. Hang on for me.”
Scout stood now, head against Roscoe’s chest.
And Tyler?
He was praying.
Not with words — but with his face, his silence, the way he clenched his jaw and refused to blink.
They arrived just as the sky turned from black to navy blue.
The clinic was lit by one buzzing fluorescent sign: “Caring Hands Emergency Vet.”
Two women waited outside in coats, one holding the door, the other with a blanket stretched across her arms.
Hank barely stopped the truck before Tyler opened the door and helped him carry Roscoe in.
The vet took one look and said, “We’ll try.”
Then they disappeared into the back.
The door closed.
And the silence was unbearable.
Hank sat hard on a plastic chair.
His hands were shaking, stained with dirt and dog hair. The adrenaline was fading, and the pain in his lower back reminded him he was no longer built for running.
A receptionist approached with a clipboard.
“I need someone to authorize care,” she said gently. “We estimate about four hundred for the full stabilization. Might go higher.”
Tyler started to stand, but Hank put a hand on his knee.
“I’ve got this,” Hank said.
He reached for his wallet.
Opened it.
And stared.
Two bills. A driver’s license. A folded picture of Elaine. An expired VA card.
No credit cards. No insurance.
He didn’t say anything.
He just sat there — a grown man with a dying dog and nothing left to offer but a name and a promise.
The receptionist waited.
Hank looked up. “I don’t… I don’t have what you need.”
She hesitated. “We can work out a plan. Something monthly—”
“I don’t have a mailbox anymore,” Hank said quietly. “Just the road.”
Tyler rose. “Put it on me.”
“No,” Hank snapped. “You’ve done enough.”
“Hank,” Tyler said, calm but firm, “my grandfather would’ve sold the roof off his house for you. Let me.”
Hank’s eyes filled. He wanted to argue. To stand on his pride like it meant something.
But all he could say was: “Please… just save him.”
The receptionist nodded. “We’ll do everything we can.”
Minutes passed. Then half an hour.
No updates.
Hank stared at the linoleum floor, tracing the cracks like roads he’d once driven. Every one led to the same place.
Regret.
“You know,” he finally said, “I never thought I’d bury this dog before myself.”
Tyler leaned back in his chair. “Maybe you won’t.”
Hank shook his head. “He’s tired. I saw it in his eyes. He’s been ready.”
“Then why keep going?”
“Because I’m not ready.”
Another silence.
Then the vet came through the swinging doors.
She knelt down beside Hank and placed a hand on his arm.
“He’s still with us,” she said. “Barely. We’ve got him on fluids, warmed him up. We’re trying glucose by IV. But I need to be honest — he’s at the edge.”
Hank nodded.
“Can I see him?”
She led him into the room.
Roscoe lay on a heated pad, covered in wires and tubes, his breathing uneven.
Scout stood at the door and refused to enter — as if this moment belonged only to Hank and the dog he’d shared a lifetime with.
Hank sat down beside the table.
Took Roscoe’s paw.
“You’re a good boy,” he whispered. “Always have been.”
He didn’t cry.
Not yet.
But his soul cracked in half when Roscoe opened one tired eye — and wagged his tail. Just once.
A final answer to a question unspoken.
[End of Part 6]
Next Part Preview:
Hank must decide: fight for one more week, or let Roscoe go in peace. Financial pressures mount. Scout begins howling at night. And Tyler reveals the final letter — one that Joe Weston wrote in case the end came quietly.