Daniel’s bloodhound, Whiskey, had sat at Gabriel’s feet with her doleful eyes looking like she’d never had a happy day in her life.
Whiskey was there because Daniel wanted Whiskey there.
Whiskey had been at Daniel’s side every moment from his diagnosis through his hospice.
“Whiskey was aptly named,” Daniel liked to say.
“Makes you forget? Comes with regrets?” Gabriel had teased.
“She takes the edge off.”
It had all been quick—an efficient exit.
Lying there, fuzzy with pain meds, it wasn’t the way Daniel wanted to exist. It was antithetical to a kid who was a “busy beaver,” as their grandmother had called him. “Busy, busy from his first breath and will be until his last.”
But that was far from the truth. Daniel was docile as he succumbed to the inevitable.
The man who lay on the couch in front of his picture window, fading like the sofa pattern from the sunlight, was not Gabriel’s brother Daniel. The Daniel that Gabriel had known was already gone by the time the diagnosis came through.
Some men died on the battlefield.
Some men took the battlefield home with them; their cells smoked in the toxic firepit plumes.
Home didn’t mean safe. For oh-so-many reasons, home didn’t mean safe.
That was it for Daniel.
Down into the hole he went.
Gabriel had wanted to cry; it would have been a relief to let it out. Just not at the funeral where his stoicism was etiquette. And not here at the damned lawyer's office either.
“…Mr. Atworth?”
Gabriel blinked as the woman stood. He’d disassociated, left his body completely as he listened to his thoughts. And now, once again, he was aware of how thick the carpet was underfoot. “Excuse me?”
“Can I get you anything?” Her smile was thin and constrained. “Cup of coffee? Glass of water?”
“Water would be great. Thank you, ma'am.”
She sidled past the desk as he stood there. “This way, please.”
Following behind, Gabriel walked down the narrow hallway lined with vintage paintings, through the open door, and over to the seat that she gestured him toward.
The receptionist hadn’t introduced herself.
Just as well.
Gabriel wasn’t holding on to information very well lately. In one ear, out the other.
At the credenza, she poured a glass of water from a pitcher and, after Gabriel had kissed Cathy’s cheek, nodded toward her husband, Dave, and settled into his place, the receptionist set the coaster down, then the glass and a box of tissues.
That box of tissues made Gabriel wonder about the expression on his own face.
Whiskey lay on a blanket at the corner of the table near Gabriel’s feet. She was small for a bloodhound with her extra-long ears and her look of perpetual sorrow.
Gabriel reached down and picked up one of Whiskey’s ears, rubbing the velvety softness between his fingers and thumb.
Whiskey turned to look at him, then stood. Even with her sad eyes, she looked like she was enjoying the attention. Gabriel swiveled to give her a proper neck rub, bringing his forehead down to hers, then kissing the top of her head.
