Part 7 – The Hardest Road
Roscoe made it through the night.
But barely.
When Hank returned in the morning, the vet met him at the door with a quiet nod.
“He’s stable,” she said. “But that’s all. He’s not recovering. Not really.”
Hank stepped into the room. Roscoe lay still, eyes half-open, chest rising with the help of machines.
He looked like he was already halfway gone.
Scout sat in the hallway, refusing to enter. Just watching. Waiting.
Hank pulled up a stool.
“You’re hanging on for me,” he whispered, brushing the fur behind Roscoe’s ear. “You don’t have to. Not if it hurts.”
The tail twitched once.
Then stillness.
Tyler arrived with breakfast — gas station coffee and a brown paper bag with two muffins. He handed Hank the coffee and sat without speaking.
After a while, the vet returned with a clipboard.
“We can try to extend his time,” she said. “New meds. IVs. But we’re no longer talking about recovery. We’re talking about comfort.”
She paused.
“And it won’t be cheap.”
Hank didn’t ask how much.
He already knew the look in her eyes.
He glanced down at his lap. “If I had pet insurance… maybe.”
She waited.
He didn’t continue.
Because there was nothing more to say.
She squeezed his shoulder once, then walked away.
The room went still again.
The machines clicked and hissed. A slow rhythm. A countdown.
Tyler cleared his throat.
“There’s something I haven’t shown you.”
He pulled a letter from his jacket. The envelope was newer, crisp — untouched by time. It had no stamp. Just a name:
To H.W., if I’m gone — read this last.
— Joe Weston
Tyler handed it to him.
“I found it the day after the funeral,” he said. “Grandma said Joe kept it separate from the others. Told her not to read it unless someone came asking for you.”
Hank took it with both hands.
His fingers shook as he opened the flap and unfolded the page.
Hank,
If this ever reaches you, I guess I’m already gone. And I’m sorry for that.
But I want to say something a man can only say once he’s beyond the reach of reply.We gave the best of ourselves to war. But it didn’t take everything. Not if we didn’t let it.
I spent years thinking you died over there. And the guilt of surviving without you nearly wrecked me.
So if you’re reading this now… it means you lived. And I’m glad. Because you deserved to.Let Roscoe go gently, Hank. Don’t do what I did. Don’t keep him here because you’re afraid to be alone.
We never got medals for what we carried after the war — the memories, the loneliness, the dogs who stayed when others left. But that’s the kind of weight that proves you were a good man.
So let go with grace. He knows you love him.
And if there’s still road left in that truck of yours — take one last ride for me.
Joe
Hank set the letter down slowly.
The tears came without warning.
Not loud.
Not shaking.
Just a quiet flood from a heart finally ready to break.
Tyler looked away to give him space. Scout walked over and pressed his head against Hank’s knee, letting out a soft sound — almost like a sigh.
Hank wiped his face on his sleeve.
He looked at Roscoe.
“You never asked for anything,” he said. “Not once. Not when it rained, not when the truck broke down, not even when I got too old to run with you.”
He stood.
Walked to the hallway.
Found the vet standing by the desk, clipboard still in hand.
“I’m ready,” he said. “Let’s not drag it out.”
She nodded.
“Would you like to be with him?”
Hank’s voice cracked. “He never left me. I won’t leave him.”
They prepped the room in silence.
No overhead lights. Just a soft desk lamp. Scout stayed just outside the door, eyes down, still as stone.
Tyler stood behind Hank, one hand resting on his shoulder.
When the injection began, Hank whispered into Roscoe’s ear.
“It’s okay, boy. You’ve done enough. You can rest now.”
Roscoe’s breathing slowed.
Then stopped.
And that was it.
No music.
No thunder.
Just stillness.
And then… the kind of silence that feels like church.
Hank stayed beside him long after the vet had gone. He didn’t talk. He didn’t move.
Just held the old dog’s paw in both hands, like it might warm again if he waited long enough.
[End of Part 7]
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With Roscoe gone, Hank and Tyler drive in silence until they reach the ocean. There, Hank finds a small act of closure — and a stranger who somehow already knows his name. Back in the truck, Scout takes Roscoe’s seat. The wheels keep turning… but the road feels different.