🔹 PART 4 – “Things You Can’t Replace”
The days after the flood moved slow, like everything in Marlow was wading through the same muddy water.
Sunlight returned, and with it came the stink of rot. Neighbors hauled their lives to the curb: mold-eaten photo albums, mattresses too heavy to lift, recliners stained with memories they didn’t want to keep but couldn’t afford to lose.
Ray showed up each morning at Jenna’s half-ruined home with a thermos of black coffee and Bear’s blanket folded under one arm. He’d leave the dog resting at the vet clinic and come straight here. Jenna always got there a little later—once the calls to her insurance rep were done, once she’d had another frustrating conversation about “policy exclusions” and “property coverage limits.”
“I paid every month,” she muttered once, jamming her phone into her pocket. “Never missed a bill. But now they tell me flood damage wasn’t included unless I had the separate rider. Who even knew?”
Ray didn’t answer.
He just handed her a pry bar and pointed to the warped pantry door.
They didn’t talk much at first. Just worked.
But working beside her father—really working, with nails in her gloves and sweat soaking her back—made Jenna feel something different. Like she was finally earning something. Not just rebuilding a house, but repairing years she didn’t know needed mending.
And Ray… he noticed.
The way she handed him tools without being asked. The way she stopped flinching when her hands got splinters. The way she didn’t talk down to the work anymore. Somewhere in her, the girl who used to watch him fix radios had come back.
“You remember when we built that birdhouse for your third-grade science fair?” he asked one afternoon, pulling a rotted beam from the kitchen wall.
Jenna looked up, sweaty and streaked with drywall dust. “The one with the little red roof?”
He nodded. “You made me repaint it three times.”
“You put the perch on crooked,” she said, grinning.
Ray chuckled. “Still won first place, didn’t it?”
“Only because you carved our names into the bottom.”
He paused, blinking. “You remembered that?”
“I never forgot.”
They sat there, side by side on a crate, sawdust in the air.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Finally, Jenna asked, “What did you do when Mom left?”
Ray’s shoulders stiffened. “Worked. Mostly. Fixed what I could. Pretended I didn’t know the difference.”
Jenna nodded. “Did it hurt?”
“Every day. But not like you’d think. It wasn’t the leaving. It was not being enough to make her stay.”
The words landed heavy.
“I used to wonder if that’s why you worked so much,” she said.
“It was,” he admitted.
And then, quieter: “But also because I wanted to build something for you. Something you could live in. Depend on.”
She looked down at her gloves. At her hands that never used to build anything but spreadsheets and presentations.
“I never said thank you,” she whispered.
Ray smiled. “You just did.”
That evening, Jenna drove Ray back to the clinic. Bear had perked up. The swelling in his leg had gone down a little, and he was eating again. Miss Carla said the rescue group approved partial funding for the surgery, but the rest would need to be covered out-of-pocket.
Ray said nothing when he heard the number—just nodded, his jaw tight.
Later, outside the truck, Jenna sat on the curb.
“I can cover it,” she said. “I’ll move some things around. I’ve got a credit card I don’t use. And a rainy-day fund. This qualifies, right?”
Ray looked at her, weary and grateful.
“You sure?”
She nodded. “I didn’t keep much from the house. But he’s not just a dog, Dad. He’s family.”
Ray looked toward the clinic window where Bear lay with his head down, a single paw draped over the blanket.
“Yeah,” he said. “He is.”
The next morning, Ray was late.
Jenna waited at the house with two coffees, pacing. When he finally pulled up, he was limping worse than usual.
“What happened?” she asked, alarmed.
“Hip’s barking louder than Bear,” he muttered.
She helped him down from the truck, watching his face twist with pain. “You need to see someone.”
“I’ve lived through worse.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to.”
He sat heavily on the tailgate. “What’s a doctor gonna do? Prescribe something I can’t afford? Tell me what I already know?”
Jenna frowned. “We could file for aid. There’s veteran coverage, right?”
Ray shook his head. “Did one year stateside during ‘Nam. Paper pusher. Never saw combat. Doesn’t count for much.”
“There’s Medicaid,” she said gently.
He looked at her, the way proud men look when they want to hide their fear. “I’ll be fine.”
But she saw the truth. In the way he sat slower. In the way he rubbed his back when he thought she wasn’t looking. In the pain hiding beneath his silence.
That night, she went online.
Typed in: healthcare assistance for senior men without insurance.
Then: hip replacement cost uninsured.
Then finally: how to help your father when he won’t ask for help.
Two days later, Bear’s surgery was scheduled.
They drove to Little Rock together—Jenna in the driver’s seat, Ray beside her, Bear curled in the back wrapped in his favorite blanket.
They didn’t talk much during the ride. But Ray kept his hand on the edge of the backseat the whole way, touching Bear’s fur like it anchored him.
At the vet hospital, they filled out more paperwork. Payment info. Emergency contact.
Jenna took the pen and wrote in her name.
Ray didn’t argue.
When they wheeled Bear away, he looked back once, eyes cloudy but calm.
Jenna reached for her father’s hand.
And this time, he didn’t pull away.
That evening, they checked into a small motel nearby. Jenna insisted on paying. Ray didn’t fight her.
She sat by the window, scrolling through emails and work messages, but her heart wasn’t in it. Marlow felt farther away than it was. The flood had drowned more than homes. It had stirred up everything she thought she had buried—resentment, shame, guilt.
Her father was asleep on the bed behind her, snoring softly, one hand resting on his chest.
She studied his face.
The same hands that patched every broken corner of her life. The same man she used to feel embarrassed by at school pick-ups, covered in sawdust. The same man who drove into a flood for a dog she left behind.
He wasn’t just a fixer.
He was her foundation.
Jenna turned back to her laptop.
Typed a message to HR: I need more time. Family emergency.
Then she opened her bank app.
Moved the last of her travel fund to a new folder.
Labeled it: Dad’s Care.
And hit save.