Part 7: Paperwork and Pawprints
The envelope arrived on a Thursday.
Thick. White. Stamped Department of Veterans Affairs.
Frank held it like it was ticking.
Darla hovered by the breaker box, pretending to organize fuse labels.
Jorge paced near the back sink.
Eli stopped sanding and waited, arms folded.
Frank peeled it open with the corner of a wrench.
Read it once.
Then again, slower.
He looked up, face unreadable.
“We’re in,” he said. “Provisional license. They’re sending a field officer next month.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Jorge exhaled — loud and shaky.
Eli clapped once.
Darla, eyes glassy, muttered, “About damn time.”
They cleaned like mad for the rest of the day.
Darla scrubbed the counter with vinegar and steel wool until the metal shone.
Eli fixed the bathroom door hinge that hadn’t closed right in ten years.
Jorge painted a fresh stripe on the garage floor and mumbled something about “making it look like hope lives here.”
Frank filed forms on the dusty laptop he hadn’t touched since 2013.
Even Hope helped — chewing labels off empty oil bottles and throwing them on the floor with triumphant squeals.
Tank didn’t move much.
He lay by the space heater, breathing slow, eyes following their every step.
When Hope toddled past, he lifted his head just enough to nuzzle her knee.
That night, Frank couldn’t sleep.
Tank had eaten only two bites of chicken and left the rice untouched.
His water bowl remained full.
Frank sat on the edge of the cot, watching the dog’s chest rise and fall.
“You gotta stick around a little longer, you hear me?” he whispered.
“We got a ribbon to cut.”
Tank twitched, like in a dream. Then stilled again.
Frank ran his hand gently down the brindled back, feeling each rib.
The dog was fading, no doubt.
The vet said a few weeks, maybe.
But Frank could feel it in his gut — it wouldn’t be long now.
In the morning, Jorge pulled Frank aside.
“Maybe it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
Jorge looked toward Tank, curled like a comma near the cot.
“A real bed. No concrete. He’s earned that.”
Frank nodded.
They cleared out the back closet.
Eli brought in an old baby mattress from his cousin’s attic. Darla lined it with fleece.
They placed Tank gently on top, his favorite blanket beneath him, the tag that said Guardian hanging just above.
Hope walked — her first real walk — from one end of the garage to the other, arms out like a wind-up toy.
Darla caught her just before she toppled.
“You’re getting brave,” she said, kissing the child’s forehead.
Then she looked over her shoulder, toward Tank.
“You see that?” she asked.
Tank didn’t respond.
But his eyes were open.
And they were watching.
That evening, Frank sat beside the mattress.
The others gave him space.
He held a photograph — one that hadn’t been touched in years.
It showed Evelyn.
Younger. Laughing. Kneeling beside a much-younger Tank with his tongue out and a tennis ball in his mouth.
“I told you not to outlive me,” Frank said softly. “But I’m glad you did.”
Tank’s ear flicked.
His tail twitched.
Barely.
Frank reached down and touched the dog’s paw.
“Everyone in here’s got something busted in ‘em,” he whispered. “But you… you just kept showing up.”
Later that night, Hope cried again.
But not for long.
Frank didn’t need to get up.
Neither did Darla.
Tank rose — slow, unsteady, a trembling line of willpower and memory.
He walked the length of the garage, one limping step at a time.
He curled beside the crate.
Let out a soft sigh.
And closed his eyes.
Hope quieted instantly.
Frank stood in the doorway, a silhouette in the pale flicker of the workshop lamp.
He didn’t interrupt.
He just watched.
Hands in his pockets.
Heart breaking and full, all at once.