He hadn’t slept more than three hours, what with the simmering resentment and Dotty’s fever. He knew Patricia needed help with their sick infant, but couldn’t she understand that his truck wasn’t starting and if he didn’t fix it, he couldn’t get to work, and if he couldn’t bring home a full paycheck from the lumberyard, he’d be useless to everyone. What, he liked marching outside at nine o’clock in frigid temperatures to clang around under the hood of some janky pickup?
The sun was creeping over the poplars along the driveway, their frozen branches like crystal fingers in the pinkish dawn. Under different circumstances, well rested, Wendell would have enjoyed a picturesque morning. What if the Silverado didn’t start again? Why did everything seem so dubious lately? He tripped over a root and banged his arm on the side mirror. Hot coffee sloshed his fingers. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he grumbled.
The ignition turned over. That was one small blessing. He put his thermos in the cupholder and cranked the heater. A Willie Nelson song came on. Boy, he thought, on a different day, I’d be feeling pretty good. Nothing had felt as cheerful over the last few weeks. Yesterday he tried watching the Steelers game, but it didn’t give him the usual boost. He could barely get a single beer down without it souring his stomach.
Out on the road, every sip of coffee brought another yawn. His eyes drooped. He turned the radio up. He’d heard a statistic on the news once. Get fewer than five hours of sleep, become four times more likely to get into a car crash. Seemed like only a second after the thought entered his head, something darted out into the road. He slammed on the brakes, skidding sideways across the icy asphalt. There was a dull thunk under his left tire, followed by a low whimper. By the time he came to a stop, he was turned around, half-straddling the opposite lane.
“What the hell?” Wendell said, steering to the side of the road. When he stepped out of the truck, the wind was howling. It slammed the door shut behind him.
In the middle of the street, scrabbling toward him, was a black and white dog; its ragged belly slunk low to the ground, paws clacking across the slippery surface. There was a grimy piece of cloth wrapped around its hindquarters. Wendell thought it was dying at first, but when it reached the truck, it perked up. Maybe it was putting on a show to make him feel bad or playing possum. Regardless, Wendell was charmed by the mangy little guy.
“Look at you,” Wendell said. “You little rascal.” It put its feet on his bumper and arched its mouth. The funny thing looked like it was trying to open the tailgate with its teeth. “Oh, no no,” Wendell said. “You’re gonna ride up front. You wanna turn into an icicle?” He ran his hand under the dog’s chin. It was wet and prickly like a frozen brush. There was nobody in sight. Wendell looked as far as he could in all directions but couldn’t see much of anything through the dim light and whipping snow. The closest house was a mile east, beyond all the vacant cornfields.
Wendell had to lift the dog into the front seat, but it didn’t seem too hurt. He saw maybe one small scratch on its front foot. The cloth clinging to its back legs appeared to be some kind of diaper. As soon as he turned the truck on, it cuddled against the heater vents on the floor. It smelled ripe, like rotten eggs and swamp water, but he didn’t care. Besides, there was nothing else to do about it at the moment. If he was late for work again, Gerry would can his ass for sure.
**
He got to work five minutes late but not much was happening. Some of the guys, Rob, Tuck, and Caleb were outside drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. They were waiting for Gerry to get there and give instructions. It wasn’t like Gerry to be any minutes late. Wendell couldn’t remember the last time he arrived before Gerry. As soon as he opened the door, the dog bounded out. For a second it looked like it would bolt, but then it got spooked, spun around, and ran smack into Wendell’s crotch.
“Ho, now!” Wendell said. The guys all laughed.
“What the hell you got there?” Caleb said. At the sound of his voice the dog went racing for him. Caleb stooped and gave it a hug around the neck. “Sweet lord,” he said. “The thing smells like a sewer.”
“Where’d you get it?” Tuck asked. He leaned down and gave it a pat on the head. Some of the ash from his smoke fell onto its nose. He didn’t mention the stench right away but recoiled a bit. Rob had already taken the hint and started backing off.
“It’s got some kind of nappy on,” Rob said. “Did you pick it up outside the nursery or something?”
“It ran out in front of me. Out on Ronks Road. Almost killed it accidentally. I couldn’t just leave it there,” Wendell said.
“Well, somebody must be missing it,” Caleb said.
“I know,” Wendell said. “I’ll take it back later and see if I can find the owner. I couldn’t be late again.”
Gerry pulled up in his Ranger and parked in the lot. It took him a while to climb out of the cab. A couple months back, a cedar pallet fell on his foot and crushed it. He limped toward them and stood a few feet away. The dog scampered over to Wendell and sat next to him with its tail wagging. Gerry shook his head. He put his hands in his overalls and whistled.
“You’ve got yourself a pickle now, huh Wendell?” Gerry said.
“What?” Wendell said. “What do you mean?”
Gerry was tall and burly, the kind of man who in his youth used to lug stacks of floor joist in one arm while carrying a bottle of Yuengling in the other. “I’m assuming you picked up this stray and are considering taking it home.”
“No,” Wendell said. “I’m taking it back.”
“He hit it with his truck,” Tuck said.
Gerry laughed. “Yep, you’re in trouble,” he said.
“Why?” Wendell asked.
“Have you named it yet?” Gerry asked.
“Why would I name it? I’m taking it – I told you.”
“I’ll name it,” Gerry said. “We’ll call it Wedgie.”
Everyone laughed. They always laughed at every damn thing. Caleb, a snort-laugher, almost shot snot out his nostrils. He wiped it away with his sleeve
“It’s Wedgie,” Gerry said, “because it’s got a pair of diapers yanked halfway up its crack, and,” he emphasized, “it’s going to drive an even bigger wedge between you and Patty if you think she’ll take it in.”
Tuck, Caleb, and Rob thought this was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
“Haha,” Wendell said. “You don’t have to call it nothing. We’re not family or anything.”
But the dog wasn’t cooperating. It stuck its tongue out and licked Wendell’s hand.
“I told you,” Gerry said.
**
When he brought the dog inside the showroom, the receptionist, Lydia, went crazy for it. Wendell knew she was a lively gal, but he never knew how wild she was about dogs. She nearly vaulted the counter and landed on its back.
“Ooooh!” she squealed, kneeling to ruffle its fur. “Oh no!” she said, getting a whiff. “Wendell,” she said. “Who is this little bugger? It’s cute, but holy moley, it reeks!”
“I know,” Wendell said. “I have to keep it the rest of the day, so I don’t miss work.” He tried giving her the same side-eyed pout the dog was giving, hoping to coax her into watching it until he punched out.
Lydia was the kindest person Wendell knew. It made her the ideal greeter of customers and the perfect person to offer refuge to a forsaken animal. Wendell only made it halfway through recounting the roadway incident before she put her hand up and stopped him. She sighed. “Okay, okay,” she said. “It can come back and file invoices with me.”
“Thank you!” Wendell said. “You’re an angel. I’ll run to Walgreens on my break and grab it some food. For now, I’ll rip up my ham sandwich from lunch and get it a water dish.”
“I’ll put the space heater on,” Lydia said. “It’ll be our mascot for the day. Come on,” she said. “Come here, boy.”
“I owe you one,” Wendell said.
The dog staggered behind the counter and into the back office. Lydia watched it closely.
“What?” Wendell said.
“I don’t know,” Lydia said. “You sure it’s okay?”
“I mean, I’m not a veterinarian, but all I saw was a little scrape behind its foot and that diaper. I don’t think I hit it too hard.”
“Something about his eyes,” Lydia said. “They look a little cloudy.”
“I didn’t look that close,” Wendell said.
Wedgie waddled out of sight. “That’s a real mutt you banged into,” she said
“Is it?” Wendell asked. “You know about dogs?”
“My uncle used to breed them,” Lydia said. “That boy’s some kind of border, shepherd,
retriever mix.”
“Not exactly a thoroughbred,” Wendell said. “He’s kinda ugly-cute.”
“Well, that’s lucky for him.”
“Sure. You don’t want to be too good looking, right? Who wants that cross?”
“It’s not the looks that matter. A lot of purebreds have health issues. Breathing problems, heart murmurs, diabetes… You want a hodgepodge.”
“I do or the dog does?” Wendell asked.
“Both?”
“I wonder if he knows he’s a mutt.”
“Probably not,” Lydia laughed.
“Win-win,” Wendell said.
**
All through work, Wendell thought about Wedgie. He thought about Patricia, too. He wished she was more easygoing. For example, he kept a stash of pork rinds under his workbench in the garage. First, she’d yell at him for spending too much time out there, then she’d scold him for raising his cholesterol. It was his body, not hers. They couldn’t get through a day anymore without bickering.
The shelves in the storage shed were overstocked, and he was having a rough time trying to squeeze in another plank of wood. The forklift was old and hard to maneuver. It was like trying to put together the world’s most cumbersome puzzle. Patty loved puzzles. Back in April she put together a giant one. One thousand pieces. It took her all spring. All the hours she spent on it, and did he get mad at her once? She adored that puzzle. It was a painting of “Three Rivers” where they both grew up outside Pittsburgh. The artist had captured the exact point where each one, the Allegany, Monongahela, and Ohio intersected. It was a pretty picture, Wendell had to admit, but he didn’t understand Patty’s obsession. She kept asking him to make a frame and hang it on the wall. At first, he thought she was kidding. Who mounts puzzles and hangs them as art? But then, about two weeks ago, he came home and there it was, posted right outside their bedroom. She must have taken it to Lancaster and had it done professionally—museum glass and matting, gilded edges… It must have cost a fortune. He wasn’t allowed to get a new truck, but she goes out and buys a gold-plated jigsaw, and he’s not supposed to say anything? In fact, they hadn’t talked about it at all. Not a word. That made Wendell sad. He wasn’t sure if he was sad because she made a big purchase without asking or because he should have said something about how nice it looked. It must have been important to her.
**
By the time his shift ended and he was back in his truck, it was already dark. Wedgie was sitting on the passenger side looking hale. That’s what Wendell thought at least. He could have practically put his own seatbelt on. Lydia was less sure, but she was overly sensitive. A little TLC and some Purina, and he was a new dog. Lydia had taken a comb to his tangles. She was going to remove the diaper, but it was melded to his skin. Too risky, she said, but she did clean up around his flanks with a warm towel and some scissors. Wendell cracked the window to blow-dry him.
“I’m calling Patty,” Wendell told him. “That’s my wife. We’ll find your owner, but if we can’t, maybe I could bring you home. Just tonight,” he said. “If it was up to Dotty, my one-year-old, we’d keep you forever.”
He dialed her number, and his phone lit up. A tiny picture of Patty appeared on the screen. She was sitting on the sand at Rehoboth Beach, smiling and eating an apple. The vacation two summers ago was the last time he’d seen her so happy.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi!” he said, probably a bit too giddy. During the lull that followed, Wendell looked over and gave Wedgie a thumbs up.
“Yes?” she said.
“Um. Okay, so I have something to tell you,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Well, on the way to work I had a little accident,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m okay. The truck is okay, but, uhhhh… well.”
“What happened, Wendell? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. But the thing is, I hit a dog.”
Patricia gasped. “What? Oh no! Is it okay?”
“Yes! He’s fine. He’s actually sitting right here beside me.” He reached over and tousled Wedgie’s ears. “Say hello, Wedgie.”
“You’re kidding,” Patty said. “Next to you?”
“His name is a long story.”
“Why’d you name it?” Patty asked.
“Him. Long story. I’m on my way right now to find its owner. His owner.”
“Where is its owner? Who is it?”
“I don’t know,” Wendell said. “Like I said, I’m going to try and find out. I have to go back to the scene of the crime.”
“What scene, Wendell? Where are you?”
“Heading back to Ronks Road, by the cornfields. I’ll try to find his folks, but I mean… I’ll do my best.”
“What if you don’t?” Patty asked.
“That’s the thing. It’s already five, and the rescue is closed. I don’t think there’s any shelters open.”
“No,” Patricia said. “The answer is no. You cannot bring that dog here.”
“Why not?” Wendell said.
“Absolutely not,” she said. “I’m already stressed. Dotty is sick, I’m tired, and I don’t have the strength right now. Neither do you.”
“Well, I guess I’ll kick it out at the next stop sign,” Wendell said. “It can sleep in a ditch.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Loud and clear,” Wendell said. “Great. Don’t wait up, I guess.”
Patty sighed. She took a deep breath and waited. “Good luck,” she said. “I hope it works out.”
“Bye-bye,” Wendell said, in his most sarcastic voice. The screen went black.
“Wedgie, pal. Just you and me. Us against the world,” he said. “If it were my choice, we’d give you a cozy hearth, some sausages and snuggles, but you heard the lady. Blame her, not me.”
Wedgie curled up on the seat. He put his chin on his paws and closed his eyes.
“Can you believe it?” Wendell continued. “I almost feel better now. She thinks I’m the mean one, but now I know. We both know. It’s her fault, not mine. Right, boy?”
**
The fields along Ronks Road were darker than any other stretch of his drive. The closest streetlights were at the gas station two miles away. The temperature had dropped below twenty, and the engine strained. It sounded like someone was trapped under the hood, knocking to get out. A month ago, it died at work and Leonard, Patty’s brother, had to pick him up. When Leonard passed his exit on the way home, Wendell asked what was happening, and Leonard said he was driving him back to their lake house for the night.
“What the fuck?” Wendell asked.
“You and Patricia aren’t doing well,” Leonard said. “You need a break, so you’re going to spend the night with me and Summer.”
“You can’t do that,” Wendell said. “That’s a violation.”
“I’m doing this for my sister,” he said.
“Cut the crap, Lenny. She’s not a prisoner. Your sister’s fine. We’re having marital problems. It’s none of your business.”
“It is my business. We talk. She trusts me.”
Wendell grabbed the door handle, and Leonard slammed on the brakes. For a few seconds they played a silent game of chicken. Wendell pictured himself thumping the door open and stomping out onto the street, but then there’d be a screaming match with Patty when he got home, and Dotty would hear it. He was worn out from working all day, and not in the mood for bullshit. He wasn’t the one who had created any this time. This time, he’d accept zero blame. He was tired of being treated like a sucker.
“Mark my words,” Wendell told him. “You win this time but never again. You hear me? I’m not a sucker.”
Wendell realized he’d been performing the memory out loud. “I’m not a sucker,” he repeated, this time straight to Wedgie. “Oh, hey,” he told him. “What do you know?”
Up ahead there was a minivan pulled over with its headlights on and engine running. Wendell coasted up alongside it. It was in bad shape, peeling paint, dented fenders, rust-streaked doors. The man inside the van had silver hair and tiny reading glasses with a dangly chain hooked to the arms. The overhead lamp was on, its dingy dome speckled with what looked like dead insects. Wendell rolled down his window. He waved his hand, and the man in the van rolled his down too.
“Hi, there. Excuse me. I have a question,” Wendell said. The wind was blowing so hard he could barely hear himself speak.
“Yes?” the man replied. He was filling out some sort of paperwork on the dashboard. The papers ruffled, nearly taking flight in the wind. He removed his glasses and draped them around his neck.
“This dog,” he said, motioning to Wedgie. “I found this dog earlier. I’m hoping to return him.” Wedgie leaned forward, as if offering himself for inspection. “You wouldn’t happen to know anybody missing a mutt like this, huh?”
“Matter of fact,” the man said, creaking forward on his seat. Wendell noticed that not only was he balancing stacks of notes on his lap and dash, he also had a corkboard propped against the passenger door tacked with multicolored Post-its. Pushed out into the cold, Wendell imagined, he’d been using his vehicle as a makeshift workshop. He felt a kinship with the man. “I believe I do. That’s Conner’s dog.”
Wendell’s first reaction was disappointment. He hadn’t wanted to admit how attached he was. “Okay, well, is this Conner nearby?”
“It’s not too far,” the man said. “You good with directions?”
“Not bad.”
“Okay,” the man said. He stretched his arm outside the window and pointed. His coat flapped in the breeze. “You see that lane waaaaay over there by the open gate?”
Wendell squinted. “I think so,” he said.
“Take that road half a mile. When you see the mailbox with a big fish on it, take a right. Go down that for a quarter mile and take a left at the old windmill. From there, look for the house with a huge red barn in back. That’s Conner’s place.”
Wendell stared at the gate and thought about not trying at all. But then the man would be watching, and it was freezing, and if he didn’t want to end up like this guy living out of his van in arctic temperatures, he’d best make an effort. “Alright,” Wendell said. “I’ll give it a go.”
The man looked at him like he had his doubts but gave him a cordial nod anyway. “Good luck,” he said. “I’m going to roll this window up before I catch pneumonia, but I hope it works out. Take care.”
“Thank you,” Wendell said, but the man’s window was already up. He was looping his glasses back around his ears and using a pencil to underline something on one of his scripts.
**
He wished Patty was there to see how deftly he navigated the roads. It would have been better if she was there. She was the close listener, the careful follower of directions, the patient stoic when situations went sideways. She was quick to let him know too, always reminding him about his shortcomings. But she wasn’t there now, and he was figuring things out all by himself.
When he saw the big red barn, he knew he was in the right place. It was even larger than he envisioned, much bigger than the house but also more dilapidated. It’s weathered siding and faded paint, paled in comparison to the house’s prim exterior; its neatly swept patio, quaint porch light, and freshly washed wheelbarrow resting by the front door.
Wendell drifted to a stop at the edge of the driveway. Wedgie sat up and poked his nose against the window. He’d been asleep the whole journey, but now that he was awake his eyes were wide and eager. His enthusiasm made Wendell somber all over again. He decided to leave the truck running. He could think of several reasons why it might be a good idea, the main one being that if he turned it off, he might not get it started again.
“Come on, sport,” Wendell moaned. When he came around to let him out, Wedgie sprung to the ground and trotted toward the door. “You don’t have to be so excited,” Wendell said.
A few paces from the porch, Wedige paused abruptly. He squatted right where he was and braced himself in place.
“What is it, boy?” Wendell asked.
Wendell bent to see what was wrong, and when he looked up there was a man standing in the doorway. He was stout and lanky like Gerry, only younger and handsomer. Like Gerry, he wore overalls, but his were starched and clean and fit him the way a tailored suit might fit John Wayne.
“Hey there,” Wendell said. He crouched next to Wedgie and grabbed a lump of skin behind his neck, as though he might hoist him into the air. “This your dog? I found your dog.”
The man opened the door a little farther and stepped onto the porch. His bare foot creaked against the wood paneling. “Looks like might be,” he said, but he didn’t move any closer.
“You’re Conner,” Wendell said.
“That’s right,” he said.
Still, he didn’t move. With every passing second, Wendell grew more restless. Forced into action, he found that he was going to pick the dog up after all. Before he knew what he was doing, he lowered himself, scooped his arms under Wedgie’s stomach and draped his wiggling body across his elbows. As he struggled to straighten, he knew how awkward it must look. But he couldn’t stop now. The process was already in motion, and the only thing to do was see it through to the end. As Wendell teetered closer, the man’s eyes gleamed. Wedgie was getting heavy. He’d hoped to hand him off once he reached Conner, but judging by his rigid posture, he wasn’t amenable to the transfer. When Wendell was a few strides away, Conner pivoted and hollered over his shoulder.
“Shawna!” he shouted. “Barley’s back.” He moved inside quickly, butting the door briefly with his forearm before letting it whack shut against Wendell’s trembling chest.
“Barley?” Wendell said, looking down at Wedgie as though they might share a hearty chuckle together.
He followed Conner through the mud room and out into the kitchen. His broad shoulders filled every doorframe to the brim. He called for Shawna several more times, but she never answered. Wedgie’s feet pedaled the air, his prickly tongue lapping Wendell’s wrist. The tickling sensation, along with the mounting weight, was becoming unbearable. Wendell’s back struck a crucifix on the wall and bumped it crooked.
Shawna was standing by the sink washing dishes. “Oh!” she said. “Oh my god!” When she saw that Wendell was cradling her lost dog, she was overcome with joy. She cranked the faucet off, tossed a towel over her shoulder, and spun around, still holding a large porcelain plate.
“I was calling you,” Conner said.
“I’m sorry,” Shawna said. “The water was running. I guess I didn’t hear.”
Wendell could tell she wanted to race over and wrap her arms around Wedgie, but there was the plate, and a dining table, and also Conner obstructing the reunion. He snagged a beer bottle off the table and drained it.
“This guy found Barley,” Conner said without turning around.
“I see that,” Shawna said, face brightening.
Shawna peered around Conner’s hulking torso and winked at Wedgie. She waved her hand and blew him a kiss. Wendell knew he should put the dog down, but he was cemented in place. Part of the issue was that his elbows had locked up, and another problem was that Shawna had steeled him with her unexpected and astounding beauty.
Her face was smooth and rosy, and something about the softness of her cheeks made Wendell wonder what it would be like to nuzzle against them. She had big brown eyes and long chestnut hair twirled into one lustrous braid. The white bandana she used to keep the bangs out of her eyes matched the lacy white collar that dangled just below her right shoulder blade. When their eyes met, she smiled, and Wendell felt an electrical current pass through his body. He nearly dropped Wedgie.
It seemed Conner had noticed the spark as well, because he spun around with great force, knocking the smirk directly from his face. He thought Conner might slug him or at least finally snatch Wedgie away from him, but to Wendell’s surprise, he raised his beer bottle and grinned. Shawna, who couldn’t see his expression, ducked down, shielding the plate in front of her. When she saw Wendell smile, she smiled back and lowered the plate.
“I know what I’ll do,” Conner said, jovially. “I have just the thing. Wait right here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He turned back around to Shawna, shoving his bottle in her direction. “Hold this,” he said. “I’ll be back.” Shawna took it without moving. Mouth slack, she stood in front of the sink, hands full.
Conner trudged past Wendell, catching Wedgie in the snout with one of his elbows. Wedgie made a whimpering sound similar to the one he’d made when Wendell first struck him with his Silverado. Conner moved rapidly, tromping down the hallway before opening a door somewhere at the other end. They heard the door open, then listened as Conner stamped down a long set of rattling stairs.
Shawna winced. “He’ll be back,” she said, more like a warning.
“What do you think he’s getting?” Wendell asked.
“I have no idea,” Shawna said.
Wendell was hoping she knew. The only thing his mind could conjure was a shotgun to bring back and shoot him with. Shawna took a step toward him and Wedgie, but realized her hands were occupied. She searched for a place to put the items down but couldn’t find a suitable surface. Panic crept into her face. It didn’t matter which emotion she presented; Wendell only became more attracted. He took a step toward her with the dog, and she took a step back, each of them unsure of where to set their respective cargo. A dance ensued, two steps forward, two steps back, arms swinging forward, arms swinging back… After a few revolutions they both began to giggle. Conner crashed into something downstairs. Glass shattered and Conner swore.
Shawna cringed again. She looked so delicate. Wendell wanted to protect her. “How much longer do you think he’ll be?” Wendell asked.
“There’s no telling,” Shawna said. She licked her lips, then bit down on the lower one. Wendell couldn’t look away. She didn’t seem to want him to.
Wedige barked, snapping them out of their trance. He was bouncing around in Wendell’s arms, wanting to move but not necessarily toward Shawna or the ground but somewhere else, someplace beyond them.
“I left my truck running,” Wendell said.
“That was a smart thing to do,” she said.
She found the right spot for the plate and glass, setting them on a patch of open space beside the sink. She wrung her hands together, striding toward him. There was impatience in her eyes but also gratefulness. Wendell felt it too. He closed his eyes, puckered his lips, and within seconds he could feel Shawna’s body swaying into his. In an instant, she shifted Wedgie from his arms and carried him into the living room. The misfire rocked him at first. There were flashes of betrayal and humiliation, but he recovered quickly, realizing how thankful he was to have the dog’s sagging mass out of his grasp.
“I need to get this off him,” she said, prying the diaper loose.
“I wasn’t sure what happened.” He flexed his arms, feeling them ache in relief. A tiredness swept over him and he yawned.
“I thought he had colon cancer, but Conner said it was just a stomach virus.”
“And?” She didn’t mention anything about his murky eyes or wounded paw.
“Well, as you can see, he’s doing pretty well. I always do that,” she said.
“What?”
“Take things to the extreme. Conner reels me back in.”
“And you let him?” Wendell asked.
“Of course,” she said.
The door opened down the hall, and Conner exited hauling something so enormous that it consumed him from hip to hairline. The way he stumbled toward him, legs splayed, fumbling the parcel, Wendell wasn’t afraid anymore. Only embarrassed.
On the way back to the truck his cell phone vibrated in his pocket, but he couldn’t answer it because he was holding a ninety-pound bag of dog chow. For the second time in the last fifteen minutes, he was carrying something unwieldy and perilous. His arms felt like putty. After several bungling attempts, Wendell flopped the sack into the bed and closed the tailgate. Inside, the truck was warm and vibrating. The message on his phone was from Patty. “Come home,” it said. “No matter what, just come home please.” Wendell shifted into drive and backed down the long driveway. He couldn’t help laughing out loud. He was laughing because of his foolishness with Shawna and his fear of Conner. He laughed because in his discombobulation he was unable to turn away Conner’s gift of free dog food even though he had no dog of his own. He laughed because of the response that came to him when he read Patty’s text message. I’ll come home if I feel like it, not because you told me to.
Hardheaded. That’s what he was. Did it always have to be his idea? Who else would take him as he was? He was getting away with something. Something good. Stubbornness, it occurred to him, was like bearing a burden and refusing to let go even when someone offered to take it off your hands. Independence was nice, but he wanted someone to share his laughter with. He’d go wherever he pleased, right where he was told to go.
*
Learn more about Simon on our Contributors’ Page.
Simon’s latest novel, Wellton County Hunters, is published by Adelaide Books and is available here.
(Photo: raymondclarkeimages/flickr.com/ CC BY 2.0)
The 2025 Best in Rural Writing Contest is now underway!
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Deadline: September 15th, 2025
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