Page 176 of Just One More Thing

He stomps one paw and snorts. “We don’t have time for temper tantrums. Pick five.”

He flops onto his side with a grunt. “Don’t be so dramatic. We’ll get you more down there.”

I reach for one of the toys near his paw, and he throws his body over it like he’s protecting a treasure. His eyes shift from the toy under his paw to my hand.

“The number of bones and toys you have is going to be a discussion for another day.”

At that, he jumps down, waddles past me, and not so subtly does a drive-by.

“Real mature.”

He doesn’t even look back.

I pack all of the toys he selected, including the treasured lips toy, then zip his duffel and only get it halfway closed.

I leave letters instead of doing goodbyes. I’m not up for pep talks or pity.

One for Maddy, Walt, Miss Hattie, and Willard. There’s even one for Mrs. Kravitz, because she’s going to tell everybody anyway, and I’d rather have one version passed around town than six.

Charlie’s the only one I’ll see. I’ll stop by on my way out.

I clip Hank’s harness on. He does a stubborn little sit until I pick up the leash, and then suddenly he’s ready. “Come on, buddy. We need to get going.”

I sling the toy bag over one shoulder, grab my duffel in the other hand, and stop at the door.

I turn for one last look.

The couch where she sat.

The kitchen where she laughed.

The windows over the bay.

The place my parents built their life inside.

Then I pull the door shut behind me. The screen slams with the same old sound it’s made since I was a kid.

Hank and I head up the dock.

I say goodbye to The Pinch of Tides first, my hand trailing over her side as I pass. Then The Knuckle.

When I cross The Green, Willard’s on his bench, watching the world in that quiet way of his. I lift a hand. He tips his hat.

Miss Hattie isn’t at The Salty Dog. First time I can remember seeing the cart without her attached to it.

Tall Tales is quiet too. Walt’s behind the counter, but I keep walking.

Nobody’s at Lazy Larry’s either. A handmade CLOSED TODAY sign hangs crooked from the patio railing.

When I pass Holey Moley, I can’t bring myself to look at it.

That’s going to take me some time.

I stop by the fire station. Charlie’s on the dock, one foot up on the fire float, a clipboard in his hand and a pen between his teeth. He looks up when he hears us coming.

He takes one look at the duffel bags, then my face.

And knows.