Page 41 of One Last Storm
But his entire world had fractured two days ago.
Shifted into something he didn’t recognize, and now everything felt slightly off-kilter, like looking at life through a broken lens.
No.
Focus on today. Focus on being here with Moose and this Christmas morning and getting back on his feet. That was the plan.
Simple. Achievable.
Don’t think about anything else.
Especially Kiana…
Caspian, Shep’s silly rescue dog hadn’t left his side since they’d brought Dawson home this morning. Not to eat, not to go outside, not even when Hazel had tried bribing him with bacon. Now the dog lay pressed against the couch where Dawson’s leg was propped up, his eyes tracking every movement in Moose’s living room.
Needy, maybe.
Wrapping paper scattered across hardwood floors, the scent of pine from the tree mixing with coffee and something cinnamon from the kitchen. Winter sunlight streamed through the windows, casting everything in that soft golden light that should have made him grateful.
Should have.
The panic kept trying to surface—images tried to push through. Sounds. The weight of decisions that couldn’t be undone.
Stop. Don’t go there.
Focus on this moment. This room. Moose’s voice drifting from the kitchen. Hazel’s laughter. He was going to get through this day. Then tomorrow. One step at a time until he was back on his feet and could pretend the world made sense again.
“Uncle Dawson, look!” Hazel bounced over to the couch, Christmas pajamas wrinkled from a morning of present-opening. “Daddy got me art supplies and Mommy got me new books and look at this snow globe from Uncle Axel!”
She held up a glass sphere containing a tiny Christmas village. When she shook it, white flakes swirled around miniature houses and ice skaters.
“It’s beautiful, kiddo.” His voice sounded normal. Amazing how you could sound normal when everything inside was static.
“I made it snow!” She shook it again. “Just like outside.”
Dawson glanced toward the window. Snow had started falling again—fat, lazy flakes that possessed nothing of the fury of the previous storm.
Caspian lifted his head, studying Dawson’s face with those too-intelligent eyes and his tail giving a tentative wag against the couch cushions.
“He really likes you,” Hazel said. “Daddy says dogs can tell about people. That they know who needs them most.”
Whatever.
Hazel plopped down on the floor beside Caspian, immediately starting to pet him. “Are you gonna keep him? Because I think he already picked you.”
Before Dawson could answer, Tillie appeared from the kitchen carrying a small wrapped box, her face glowing with something that made Moose stop mid-conversation with Axel and Flynn, who’d arrived an hour ago, Flynn sporting her new engagement ring.
At least someone was heading for a happily ever after. Well, and Moose and Tillie, and, apparently London and Shep…
Just him. Stuck on the sofa, in a cast, watching life.
“Dawson.” Her voice carried warmth as she approached the couch. “I have something to show you.”
She opened the box, revealing tiny yellow baby slippers nestled in tissue paper.
“Yellow baby slippers,” she said, her smile radiant. “The ones I was going to give to Moose. But now I think…we wanted to give them to you.”
He stared at her.
