Page 15 of Blitz
The man—Ben, I guessed—didn’t look up when we entered. “Hey, Marge, can you grab the medicated shampoo from the supply closet? We need to get Wink on a—” He stopped mid-sentence when he saw me, and his eyes widened in recognition. “Cole Harrington,” Ben said, and stood, shaking my hand.
“Trick,” I corrected.
“How can I help?”
The one-eyed dog plopped his butt between us and wagged his tail, staring up at me.
“I, uh, came to donate.” I reached for my wallet, but the dog whined and nudged my leg with his nose. I froze, unsure what to do with the animal directly in contact with my designer jeans.
“Wink, back up,” Ben said gently, and the dog retreated a step but kept his good eye fixed on me. “He likes you.”
“I’m not a dog person,” I replied, reaching down to scratch behind Wink’s floppy ear. I felt kind of pleased when the scrappy mutt threw me a doggy grin and wagged his tail.
Ben just smiled knowingly. “Funny, because he seems to think you are.”
I cleared my throat and pulled out my card. “So, how much would help? Five hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? Can I get some photos for my socials, with um… with Wink?” What would pull at the heartstrings more than a one-eyed dog? That would prove I was a good guy to Tom. Not that I cared what Tom thought. Much.
Ben looked at me curiously. “Any amount helps, but what brought you here specifically?”
“Noah recommended you,” I said, not mentioning Tom or my lie.
Ben grinned. “Stan and Erik’s boy? I’ll have to thank him.” He clipped a leash to Wink’s collar. “How about Wink and I give you a tour and get you some photo ops?”
I glanced at my watch. “Sure, but I don’t have long.” Another lie. What would I do, go home and sit in my empty place?
“Won’t take long,” Ben said, unworried.
I took a selfie with Wink—kneeling beside him with his one eye staring trustingly at the camera—and uploaded it before leaving the parking lot. I tagged CrossRoads, added a link totheir donation page, and wrote some bullshit about“making new friends”I was sure Layton Foxx would be proud of.
I hesitated before messaging Tom. What was I trying to prove, exactly? That I wasn’t a complete asshole? That I did“do a lot with dogs”? I stared at my phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Fuck it.
Me: Check my Insta
I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat and started the car. When I returned to my apartment, my post had thousands of likes, and my DMs were flooded with people asking how they could help Wink specifically. A couple even asked about adopting him. I knew Ben would ensure Wink went to a safe place, but what if me sharing the photo meant I inadvertently put Wink on a trajectory to a bad home? Fuck, now I was second-guessing everything.
My phone rang. Dad. That was quick.
I stared at the screen, hoping maybe I’d imagined it, but no—Cole Harrington II, shining beacon of American televangelism, wanted a word. I took a deep breath and answered.
“You spent money on a dog?” His voice was sharp, the kind that drilled into you and found whatever soft spots were left. “A dog, Cole? When there are a million God-fearing parishioners who need help? Who need salvation and guidance? And you’re out there funding mongrels?” I didn’t argue, I simply listened, and he didn’t stop. “You think this is how you serve God? By posing with some one-eyed mutt like you’re a saint. You’re wasting your name. Wasting the resources God blessed you with.”
The guilt hit hard—it always did—like a weight dropped straight into my chest. My tongue felt like sandpaper, and my throat was tight.
“Dad—”
“I don’t want excuses, Cole. I want obedience. Stewardship. Responsibility.”
Obedience. As if I were a dog myself.
“What happened with the lawyers and that girl who?—”
He hung up and I sat there, phone still pressed to my ear, as if maybe the call hadn’t ended. But it had, and the guilt and shame were massive. It consumed me. It wasn’t just about Wink or the money. It was about everything—about failing to be the version of myself Dad had built in his image. About chasing something real and being told it was wrong. About not knowing if I believed in anything anymore, except that I’d never be enough for him, no matter what I did.
A message from Tom popped up, and I nearly threw my phone out of the window, because if someone was nice to me right now, I’d sit and cry like a fucking baby.
Idiot Ball Chaser: Dude! That’s awesome! That one-eyed guy is a rockstar. Are you adopting him? Do you volunteer there?
