Part 5: Scraps and Sacraments
The next week passed like the slow drift of river fog—soft, steady, not without its snags.
Caleb started back at school part-time, escorted by a guidance counselor who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. He didn’t complain, didn’t say much at all those mornings. Just packed his own lunch and kissed Lucky on the head before leaving.
Eddie noticed the way Lucky would watch the door for a full ten minutes after Caleb left. Then, like flipping a switch, the dog would curl under the kitchen table and sigh. Loudly. Like a heart letting the air out.
“You miss him already?” Eddie asked on Tuesday.
Lucky gave him a look. Not quite a nod. Not quite no.
“I know the feeling.”
Eddie’s routine adjusted, piece by piece.
He shortened his morning route, just enough to be home when Caleb got back from school. Bought extra bread. Kept apples in the fridge. Dug out a baseball glove from the garage and spent twenty minutes each night trying to remember how to throw without aggravating his shoulder.
Some nights, they played cards. Others, they watched old Westerns.
On Thursday, they fixed the mailbox.
On Friday, they built a bird feeder.
By Saturday, Caleb was showing Lucky how to “shake” and “stay” and “roll over,” though Lucky seemed far more interested in rolling in whatever he found in the side yard.
Still, Eddie couldn’t deny it: the boy and the dog were syncing up like two ends of a story finally meeting in the middle.
That Sunday, Eddie took them to church.
Not because he’d suddenly found religion again—he hadn’t set foot inside Denton First Baptist since Ruby’s funeral—but because Caleb asked.
“Do they let dogs in?” the boy had asked quietly.
Eddie didn’t lie. “Probably not.”
Caleb looked down. “Then maybe next time.”
But that night, Eddie called Pastor Jim.
“Remember me?” he asked.
The pastor chuckled. “Takes more than a few years to erase Eddie Vance from the pews.”
“I got a kid staying with me. And a dog. Any chance we could… sit in the back? Quiet-like?”
“You bring who you need to bring, brother. God’s house has room.”
They sat near the exit, just in case.
Caleb wore a shirt Eddie ironed with too much starch and shoes a size too small (they’d fix that soon). Lucky lay beneath the pew with his head on Caleb’s foot, tail thumping once every time someone hit a piano chord.
The sermon was about the Good Samaritan.
Not the part about the priest passing by.
The part about stopping. Lifting. Carrying.
“You don’t have to be rich to do right,” the pastor said. “You just have to show up when no one else will.”
Eddie folded his arms, heart tightening. Caleb sat up straighter. Lucky snored softly.
Eddie reached over, placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. It felt like laying down a brick in a foundation he didn’t know he was building.
Afterward, folks greeted them outside with gentle smiles and awkward pauses.
“Didn’t know you had a son, Eddie.”
“I don’t,” he said. Then glanced at Caleb. “Not by blood, anyway.”
The boy looked up at him, surprised.
Lucky wagged so hard his rear legs lifted.
They walked home slower than usual, the dog weaving between them like a living thread.
That afternoon, they grilled hot dogs in the backyard. Caleb insisted Lucky get his own.
Eddie gave in. “But only one.”
Lucky licked the plate clean and fell asleep on his back, legs in the air like a question mark.
Caleb leaned back in the lawn chair, arms crossed behind his head.
“Was it hard? When Missy died?”
Eddie blinked. The question came from nowhere. Or maybe it had been circling for days.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Harder than I ever expected.”
“She sick for a long time?”
“Six years. Diabetes. Never really took care of herself. I tried. But… you can’t always love someone back to health.”
Caleb nodded. “My mom had that look, too. Like she was already somewhere else. Even before the cancer won.”
Eddie looked at the boy. Too young to be this old.
“I’m sorry, son.”
Caleb didn’t answer. Just reached down and rested his hand on Lucky’s belly.
After a moment, he said, “Sometimes I think the dog knew before I did. Like, when things were going bad. He started sleeping by my door, and growling when the phone rang. Like he could hear the news coming.”
Eddie nodded slowly. “Some dogs know.”
They sat in the hush, as the sun began to drift westward behind the fence line.
That night, Eddie couldn’t sleep.
He stood by the window and looked out at the yard. The wind picked at the bird feeder. An old oak creaked near the shed.
His house felt full again. Lived-in. A place with noise and leftovers and mismatched socks.
He thought of the words from that morning’s sermon.
You don’t have to be rich to do right.
He wasn’t rich in money. Lord knew that.
But maybe—just maybe—he had enough of something else.
The next morning, Eddie called the Family Services office.
“This is Eddie Vance.”
“Yes, Mr. Vance?”
“I want to talk about guardianship. Permanent.”
A pause.
“Are you sure?”
Eddie looked down at Lucky, asleep with Caleb’s shoe between his paws.
“I’m sure.”
Part 6: Paperwork and Paw Prints
They didn’t make it easy.
No one ever does when it comes to claiming something precious.
Eddie sat across a long Formica desk with three different forms stacked in front of him, each with boxes and questions and lines meant for people who knew how to plan. A woman with tightly coiled hair and bright pink nails tapped her pen against the table and said, “You’ll need two references. And proof of stable income.”
Eddie adjusted the brim of his cap. “I’ve had the same route for 28 years. Never missed a Thursday.”
She nodded. “That’s a start.”
From the lobby, Caleb waited with Lucky sprawled across his lap, head tilted, ears alert.
Eddie glanced through the window and saw the way the boy absently stroked the dog’s ear. Like he’d done it a thousand times before.
Like they’d always been stitched together by something more than chance.
The forms took a week.
References came slower.
He called Marla from the church and left a message. Then he called his brother, whom he hadn’t spoken to since Ruby’s memorial.
“Eddie?”
“I need a favor.”
A long pause.
“Does it involve money?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll hear you out.”
When he explained, his brother went quiet again. Then said, “I’ll write the damn letter. What you’re doing… it’s more than I ever did.”
Eddie didn’t say thank you. Didn’t have to. Some things are louder in silence.
Meanwhile, life didn’t wait.
Caleb brought home a library book on astronomy and taped star charts to his wall. Lucky kept barking at the Orion constellation, as if the three-belted warrior posed some threat to their living room peace.
Eddie drove his usual route and noticed for the first time how many boxes on the curb were still alive in some small way—a forgotten doll’s head peeking out, a child’s art project soggy from rain, shoes with laces tied in double knots.
“We throw away too much,” he muttered to himself. “Way too damn much.”
One evening, Caleb came home with a permission slip.
“Field trip,” he said. “Science museum in Lexington.”
Eddie looked at the form, brow furrowed.
“You need a parent signature.”
“I know.”
Eddie reached for a pen. Paused.
Then, in clear, careful print, he wrote:
Eddie Vance – Guardian
Caleb smiled without showing teeth. That kind of smile that leaks from somewhere deeper.
“Thanks,” he said. “I didn’t want to ask.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The next day, a package arrived.
No return address. Just Eddie’s name, handwritten.
Inside was a collar. Leather. Worn but oiled, cared for.
Attached to it was a note.
He’s not the first dog you’ve saved.
Thought this might belong to someone new now.
—R.
Eddie stared at it a long time. The stitching. The scuff. The faint scent of woodsmoke and old tobacco.
It was Duke’s collar—his father’s war dog. Kept in storage for decades.
And now, in his hands.
He knelt beside Lucky and gently swapped the nylon strap for the old leather one.
The fit was perfect.
“Looks like you’re part of a line now,” he said.
Lucky licked his hand once, then settled back on the mat.
By Friday, the social worker returned.
“I’ve reviewed everything,” she said. “You’ve got the support. The job. The history. What I need to know now is…”
Eddie raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Do you really want this? It’s not a hobby. Or a project. This is a boy’s life.”
Eddie looked at her long and hard.
Then he stood, walked to the wall, and pointed at the photo Caleb had taken last week: the three of them on the porch steps, Lucky front and center, tongue lolling, Eddie squinting into the sun, Caleb’s head tilted just so toward his shoulder.
“I don’t see a project,” Eddie said. “I see family.”
That night, the wind kicked up hard, and a storm split the sky.
Power flickered. The windows moaned.
Caleb came out of his room holding his blanket.
“Can I stay out here?” he asked. “Just for a bit?”
Eddie patted the couch.
Lucky hopped up too, worming his way between them like a live-weight pillow.
They watched lightning crack over the trees. Thunder rumbled like something ancient.
“Sometimes,” Caleb said, “I think Lucky’s not just a dog.”
Eddie glanced at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… it’s like he showed up when I needed him most. Like he knew something was about to happen.”
Eddie leaned back, hands behind his head.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve had that feeling, too.”
Some nights you don’t sleep.
You just sit beside the people you love, listening to the world remind you how small and sacred it all is.
And sometimes, in the middle of all that noise, you remember:
You didn’t rescue them.
They rescued you.