Arthur Vance had two things left in his life: a carved ash cane and a dog named Barnaby.
His wife had been gone five years. His kids called on Christmas if he was lucky. But every morning, Barnaby’s amber eyes were there at the foot of the bed, patient and warm as sunlight, and that was enough.
October was raw that year. The leaves scraped across the sidewalk like something trying to get away. Arthur walked slowly, stopping every block to press his palm flat against his sternum where a dull pressure had been building for two weeks.
“Almost there, buddy,” he said. “We’ll get this chest thing sorted. Doc gives me a pill, we go home, I get you that marrow bone from the butcher. Deal?” Barnaby nudged his dry hand with a wet nose.
The massive glass doors of St. Jude Memorial slid open ahead of them. Arthur gripped the wheelchair ramp rail. His vision went gray at the edges.
“Stay,” he said softly, turning back. “Wait here. Dogs aren’t allowed inside.” He tried to smile with pale lips. “I’ll be quick.”
Barnaby sat. His tail thumped once against the cold concrete.
The doors hissed shut.