Page 13 of Since the Day We Left

“Right, right.” Arthur paused, running a hand over a piece of driftwood. “Good days and bad days.”

Over the years, Miles had learned to wait. His dad’s thoughts surfaced on their own time, and rushing them only left them both frustrated.

Arthur straightened, letting the driftwood fall. “It’s not your fault, son.”

“What do you mean?”

“The fire. Your mom ...” Arthur turned to him. “You were just a kid.”

Miles swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. This wasn’t a topic they’d discussed—not even before the Alzheimer’s. That night had always been a dividing line in their lives: before and after.

“I know, Dad.”

But he didn’t know. Not really. Inside him still lived that ten-year-old boy—the one who’d felt his mom pushing him out the bedroom window, her final act before the ceiling collapsed.

Miles shoved his hands into his pockets and felt the familiar spiral shell. He ran his thumb over its ridged surface. Sometimes, he’d hold it up to his ear, swearing he heard something beyond the ambient sounds or the rush of blood in his ears—something calming.

Back at the station, the guys never let him forget his “lucky charm.” Once, on the way to a warehouse fire, Bryan had caught Miles rubbing it and asked, “What’s the shell saying?”

Tom had chimed in, “I’ll bet five bucks that shell’s getting more action than we all have this week.”

Jeff had simply smiled, lifting his jacket collar to reveal the St. Florian medal tucked beneath. “We all got something.”

Miles cleared his throat. “We should go. It’s dark.”

Arthur nodded, but didn’t move. “Five more minutes—to look at the stars.”

“Of course, Dad.”

It was such a normal request—just like the dad who’d once kept him up past midnight to watch the Braves finish a 12-2 blowout, insisting with that stubborn grin, “You never know what might happen till it’s over.”

A breeze shifted, carrying a sound—a splash? A muffled voice? Miles glanced down the shoreline, but saw nothing.

Probably just the wind.

As they marveled at the stars, movement down the beach caught Mile’s eye—a small, dark shape.

A shorebird?

Then the shadow moved toward them at full tilt—too fast for a bird.

Within seconds, a dog had reached them, circling Arthur’s legs before plopping down at his feet.

“Well, hello there, little guy!” Arthur crouched without his usual difficulty, extending his hand. “Where’d you come from?”

The small black dog, with neatly trimmed hair, sniffed cautiously before pressing into Arthur’s palm. Then, with a wiggle, the dog flopped onto his back, paws batting at the air, belly on full display.

Arthur chuckled, rubbing the dog’s belly. “Aren’t you the friendly one?”

Miles smiled, watching his dad interact with the dog as easily as breathing.

It reminded him of the woman from the support group, who’d mentioned bringing her cat to visit her husband in memory care. The facilitator had nodded, explaining how Alzheimer’s patients often connected with animals in ways they struggled to with people. “No expectations,” she’d said. “Just the present moment.”

Miles hadn’t gone back after that first meeting. He told himself it was scheduling, but each Wednesday evening when seven o’clock approached, he’d find himself lingering at the kitchen table, car keys in hand, unable to move. Hearing others’ stories had left him raw for days. Besides, wasn’t he handling things fine? He had systems in place: daily phone calls, charts, medication schedules, and a neighbor who checked on him a few times a week. What good would sitting in a circle of strangers do for either of them?

And yet, watching his dad with Max made something shift inside him. Maybe there were other strategies he could try, like those therapy dog programs the facilitator had recommended.

Kneeling, Miles checked the collar, finding a silver shell-shaped tag with a name and phone number etched on it. “Max,” he read aloud, glancing at his dad.

---