Part 8 – The Passenger Seat
They wrapped Roscoe in the old Army blanket.
The one he’d chewed as a pup.
The one he’d slept on in the back of Truck 73 through every state line Hank had ever crossed.
Dr. Elkins placed him gently in a small wooden box lined with flannel. No plastic. No lid. Just something dignified. Something that said: He mattered.
Hank didn’t say much.
He settled the box in the back of the truck like precious freight. Scout jumped in after, nose touching the corner before curling up beside it.
Tyler offered to drive, but Hank shook his head.
“I started this ride,” he said. “I’ll finish it.”
They headed west.
The road unfurled like ribbon beneath the tires, but everything felt different now. Lighter, in a way that didn’t feel like relief — more like something had been released.
For hours, no one spoke.
Truck 73 hummed steady. The sky turned slate gray, then golden. Missouri gave way to Kansas, and Kansas to Oklahoma. The days blurred, but the weight in Hank’s chest remained sharp.
At a rest stop somewhere past Amarillo, they parked beneath a scraggly cottonwood.
Hank stepped out, lit a match, and sat on the tailgate.
He reached into the shoebox of Joe’s letters again, not even sure which one he pulled.
This one was short. Scribbled.
To whoever finds this — if it ain’t Hank, burn it. If it is, tell him I still owe him a beer and a game of pool. And I’ll be damned if he brings that dog and doesn’t let him sit at the table.
Hank chuckled.
A dry, tired sound.
“You hear that, Roscoe? No more getting kicked outta truck stops.”
Tyler joined him.
They ate boiled eggs and jerky. The cheap kind. Scout sat between them, ears flicking, watching birds with no interest in chasing them.
Later, back on the road, Hank glanced at the passenger seat.
It was empty.
Out of habit, he reached his hand across — and felt nothing but worn fabric.
It stung.
Deep.
Until Scout quietly stood, stepped over the gear shift, and settled beside him.
Didn’t bark. Didn’t ask.
Just… filled the space.
Hank swallowed hard.
“Hope you don’t snore like he did.”
Scout let out a slow breath, almost like agreement.
Tyler watched from the backseat.
“My grandpa always said dogs know when they’ve been handed a torch,” he said.
Hank nodded, one hand resting on the wheel, the other on the dog’s back.
They reached Arizona by nightfall. Camped out in a patch of red dust just outside Winslow.
Under the stars, Hank finally spoke.
“You think they’re waiting somewhere?” he asked. “Dogs like Roscoe? Men like Joe?”
Tyler considered. “I hope so.”
“Me too,” Hank whispered. “Me too.”
They built a fire.
Tyler poured coffee. Scout rested his head on Hank’s thigh. And Roscoe’s box sat by the bumper, kissed by the flame’s glow.
The old truck creaked in the wind.
No one said goodnight.
They just sat together, letting the quiet fill the space between goodbye and whatever came next.
[End of Part 8]
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At the edge of California, they find a cliff Joe once wrote about — the place he wanted his ashes scattered. Hank brings Roscoe there instead. A stranger at the overlook knows Joe’s name… and reveals a truth Hank never expected.