Part 6
“You don’t have to,” Evan said.
On Saturday he packed Milo’s medication, food, favorite rubber ring, blanket, vet records, and the blue bandanna into two canvas bags. He added a third bag, removed half of what he had put in it, and left the rest on his own kitchen counter.
At eleven, he pulled up outside Nora’s building. The yellow door had been repainted a muted green, and a small camera sat beside the frame. Evan did not have access to it. He parked where Nora could see the cruiser-sized shape of his truck from the window, carried the bags to the porch, and knocked.
Milo whined at the other side before Nora opened the door.
She stood in jeans and a soft gray sweater, her cast replaced by a removable brace. She looked stronger than she had in the courtyard and more tired than she did in photographs. Recovery showed itself in both directions.
Milo tried to launch forward. Evan shortened the leash until Nora stepped aside.
“Okay,” she said. “Come home.”
The puppy crossed the threshold, skidded on the wood floor, and ran a crooked circuit through the living room. He checked the couch, the kitchen, and the place beneath the front window where his old crate had stood. Then he raced back to Nora and pressed his entire side against her shins.
She lowered herself carefully to the floor. Milo climbed into her lap as far as his new size allowed, licking her chin, her brace, and the tears she gave up trying to hide. Nora buried her face behind his good ear.
Evan remained on the porch with the bags. After a while she looked up. “You can bring those in.”
He carried them to the rug and stopped. The apartment was almost as he remembered it, but the differences mattered: a lamp where the television had been, a row of library books on the mantel, a sturdy chair Aunt Rae had placed in the shower visible through the open hall door. Evan did not inspect the windows or test the lock.
“The vet wants one more check next month,” he said. “It’s written in the folder. He still startles at diesel engines. The behavior specialist says not to force him closer.”
Nora nodded. “I can do that.”
“I know.”
Milo left her long enough to nose through the canvas bags. He pulled out Evan’s old blue flannel, now folded around the torn bandanna.
Nora stared at it. “You knew.”
“I recognized your mom’s stitches.”
She smoothed one thumb along the green thread. “I meant to give the shirt back years ago. After Mom died, I couldn’t. When I brought Milo home, I cut his bandanna from it.”
“And he knew my scent from the shirt?”
“Not only the shirt. I walked him past your house sometimes. I told myself it was just part of our route, but the first time he spent ten minutes sniffing your porch steps.”
Evan looked at the dog. “That’s why he came to me.”
“Maybe. He knew the place, your scent, and the word Dad. The market was the nearest place with people.” Nora touched the ragged bandanna. “When I sent him away, I kept saying, ‘Find Dad.’ I didn’t know if he understood any of it. I just needed to believe I had sent him toward someone.”
“He understood enough.”
Nora folded the flannel once, then placed it in Milo’s crate. “You always thought I wanted you gone.”
Evan said nothing. A defense would have been easy. Silence required more from him.
“I wanted you to knock,” she said. “I wanted you to believe me when I said I could choose. That isn’t the same thing.”
“I know that now.”
“Knowing it here is easy.” She touched two fingers to her temple. “Remember it the next time you’re scared.”
Evan reached into his pocket. Aunt Rae had given him a temporary key after Nora left the hospital so he could drop off the cleaned groceries and collect Milo’s crate. Nora had not asked whether he still carried it. He set the key on the low table between them.
“I brought him home when you asked,” he said. “I’m giving that back. And I’m going to leave before I turn staying into another decision I make for you.”
Pain moved through Nora’s face, but it was not the pain he expected. Milo sensed it and sat between them, looking from one to the other.
Evan bent to rub the puppy’s chest. The dog leaned into his hand, then caught Evan’s cuff gently between his teeth—the same wordless pull he had used in the market.
“No,” Evan whispered. “You live here.”
He released the cloth without prying the dog’s mouth open. Milo went back to Nora, then followed Evan when he walked to the door.
Evan stepped outside, picked up the empty canvas bags, and walked down one step.
“Dad.”
He stopped at the sound of her voice.
“I ordered too much Chinese food,” Nora said. “Aunt Rae says that’s a trauma response, but really I’m bad at portions.”
Evan looked back. Nora stood in the doorway with one hand on the frame. Milo sat on her good foot, preventing either of them from pretending the invitation was casual.
“Are you asking me to stay?” he said.
“For lunch. Not forever.”
“Lunch I can do.”
He waited until she moved aside, then crossed the threshold. They ate from cartons at the small kitchen table. Nora gave Milo one unseasoned piece of chicken and made Evan check the ingredient list before offering another. They did not settle seven months of hurt over rice and broccoli. Nora tired after half an hour. Evan washed the containers, asked where the trash went, and left when she said she needed to sleep.
At the door, Milo started after him. Nora called once, and the puppy stopped, looked at Evan, and returned to her.
Evan felt the loss of his warm weight beside the bed and the early footsteps that would not wake him tomorrow. He kept walking.
“Sunday?” Nora asked. “If you want.” “Knock at ten.” Evan smiled. “I can do that too…”
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