He nodded. “Some of them got restless at night.”
“And you kept every name.”
“Somebody should, son,” Dad murmured. “Those old dogs… they just needed to know love was still out there. That kindness isn’t gone just because the world got too busy to notice them.”
“You couldn’t mention any of this to your son?”
Dad gave me the look he used when I was a teenager, being dramatic over a flat tire. “You never asked, Pete.”
“They just needed to know love was still out there.”
That one was fair. And fair can sting worse than mean ever could.
The officers spoke quietly with Dad for a few more minutes. Their tone had completely changed. No suspicion was left in it. The older one said he’d make that clear in his report.
The younger one looked at one of the empty spaces and asked Dad, “You do this all yourself?”
“Mostly,” Dad answered.
Outside, Mrs. Donnelly finally found her voice. “Walter, I didn’t know… I’m… I’m extremely sorry…”
“You do this all yourself?”
Dad didn’t rescue her from that. He just looked at her.
Mrs. Perez stepped forward. “I should’ve said something sooner. I had a feeling it wasn’t…” Her voice thinned out.
Grayson cleared his throat and stared at the grass. “I was wrong.”
Dad nodded once. “Yes, you were.”
There was no meanness in it. That made it land harder.
The vehicles pulled away. Neighbors drifted back to their porches.
“Walter, I didn’t know… I’m… I’m extremely sorry…”
Dad went back into the garage, picked up a folded towel, and started wiping a water bowl as though he had a normal morning to get back to.
“Dad…”
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