Part 5: The Dog Who Stayed
Tank didn’t rise at dawn like he used to.
Not that morning.
Frank sat at the garage table, cradling a chipped mug of black coffee that tasted like burned toast.
He waited. Listened. Looked toward the blanket in the corner where Tank usually slept beside the old space heater.
The bed was occupied — but still.
No tail wag.
No soft grunt.
No paws tapping the concrete in search of breakfast.
Frank’s chest tightened.
“C’mon, buddy,” he called quietly. “It’s morning.”
Nothing.
Then — a slow thump.
Then another.
Tank lifted his head, eyes bleary, tongue dry against his jowls.
He tried to stand.
His back legs gave out.
Frank was on his knees in an instant, arms under the dog’s chest, hoisting gently.
Tank whimpered, just once — more embarrassment than pain.
“You’re okay,” Frank whispered. “You’re okay.”
By noon, Tank had made it to the workbench, one stiff leg at a time.
Hope was napping nearby in her crate, tiny fist still clenching the rubber torque wrench like it was sacred.
Tank settled beside her.
Frank noticed Darla slipping a heating pad under his belly.
“You plug it in?”
She nodded. “Low setting.”
Frank gave her shoulder a squeeze.
That was all the thanks she needed.
Later that evening, Jorge was gone.
Vanished sometime after lunch — didn’t leave a note, didn’t answer calls.
His cot was untouched.
His coat still hung on the wall.
But his duffel bag was missing. So was his old service revolver.
Frank swore. “Check the alley. The Wendy’s lot. Everywhere.”
Darla stopped by the breaker box, eyes wide. “You think he—?”
Frank didn’t answer.
It was Tank who found him.
Past the edge of the parking lot, near the chain-link fence where the old billboard used to advertise mufflers for $39.99.
Jorge sat on the cold gravel, knees pulled to his chest, revolver in his lap.
Tank approached — slow, deliberate — and sat right in front of him.
Didn’t bark.
Didn’t nudge.
Just stared.
Jorge looked up.
And something inside him buckled.
He dropped the revolver into the dirt and buried his face into the dog’s neck.
Tank didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Just let himself be held.
Frank arrived a few minutes later.
He didn’t yell. Didn’t demand answers.
He sat beside Jorge, knees cracking, and picked up the gun.
“Let’s go home, son,” he said.
And that was that.
Back in the garage, Hope was fussing.
Darla rocked her gently, humming a broken tune.
Eli stood by the door, prosthetic leg squeaking as he shifted.
When Frank and Jorge returned, Jorge’s face was streaked with dirt and tears.
His hands trembled.
But he walked in on his own.
Tank collapsed near Hope’s crate with a heavy sigh, breathing labored.
Darla dropped to the floor beside him, stroking his flank.
“Good boy,” she whispered.
“Damn good boy,” Frank added, crouching with a warm cloth to wipe the gravel from Tank’s paws.
That night, the garage was quiet.
No engines turned.
No tools clanked.
Just wind, the soft whir of the space heater, and Tank’s breathing — slow, uneven, but still going.
Jorge lit a candle beside the cot.
Eli carved a bone-shaped tag out of old steel.
He etched one word into it: Guardian.
Darla hung it above Tank’s bed.
Nobody said it aloud, but they all knew.
That dog hadn’t just saved Jorge.
He’d saved all of them.
And he was running out of time.