Chapter Text
Waking up is no longer something Joel thinks about. It’s something that happens to him, something that he has to deal with. It’s not a choice to turn off his old-fashioned alarm clock, to gulp down a cup of black coffee, to pull on dusty jeans and dustier boots. His privileges of choice on the matter had been confiscated twenty years ago by the look in Tommy’s eyes when he woke up with a bandage around his head.
It wasn’t always empty like this, though. In the first couple years, he’d tried everything. Pickup basketball, a class at community college. Poker games, boxing. Lots of long, lonely nights at topless bars. Joel had thrown himself at anything that might make him feel something, but nothing broke through.
So it started to get tiring. Trying just didn’t feel worth it anymore. Why should he get out of bed on a Saturday morning and pull on his old sneakers just to pass around a ball with a bunch of out-of-shape old fucks? He’d win or he’d lose, he’d go home sweaty, and none of it would matter. There would still be hours left to fill, calls from Tommy left to dodge, infinite time left to spend avoiding thoughts of – her. By three o’clock, he’d have started drinking.
That was fifteen years ago. He doesn’t try anymore. Joel’s life is the bare minimum – work, home, sleep. Not much more than an old television, a pair of sturdy boots, and a semi-comfortable bed. But the impossible thing is this: it still fucking hurts. Jesus, it’s barely a life at all, and it still hurts.
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Once, before any of this, Joel had gone out to the garage during one of Tommy’s famous parties. They needed more beer, and Tommy had a few more cases in the rickety old refrigerator out there. Joel had forgotten that the garage door would lock behind him, and cursed when it swung shut. But he was contented and two steps past buzzed, so after a few more good-natured curses, he grabbed the beer and went out the exterior door without complaint.
And then he stopped. It was a different world outside the party. The block was suburban and this late at night, even the air stood at a standstill. The music was muffled out there, and Joel could still hear the uncertain hum of the garage fridge, which couldn’t seem to decide if it wanted to keep running or not. Through the yellow glow of the windows, silhouetted bodies moved and drank and danced.
Joel watched the party from a million miles away. He heard its voices, its glass bottles. Inside the house, the whole of life was moving through its course like water down a creek bed. Joel was totally separate, an astronaut in a tin can. The party guests, oblivious to him, would go on flirting and arguing and laughing forever, Joel thought. He could blend into the stillness of the night and life couldn’t touch him.
By the time Tommy poked his head out the garage door and hollered, condensation was pooling on the beer bottles. Joel let himself be dragged back into the party, let Tommy push another beer into his hands, let someone coax him into covering Cash on some beat-up six string.
He didn’t think about that night again until after, but if he had to describe the last fifteen years, that’d be it: watching life from a million miles away.
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It works, though. As meager of an existence as it is, it works. He clocks in, clocks out, and eats a TV dinner at the table. Three beers, whatever game happens to be on, maybe he finds a crooked doorjamb or some other project around the house to tinker with, and then he’s out for the night. When the sun comes up, he does it all over again.
If he doesn’t think too much, he doesn’t have to remember Before. He works as much as he can, tries to keep his hands busy. Sometimes he makes it through half the day before something reminds him of her. But invariably, somebody’ll mention some boyband she liked, or he’ll see a butterfly, and then he’s clutching at his chest and trying not to collapse like always. He wants to say it’s gotten better over the years, but that would be a lie.
He doesn’t mention her name, only looks at her picture once a day, and it’s enough to let him scrape by. It’s enough, and he’s not lonely.
Which is definitely, especially true after two weeks straight of working doubles, when his boss makes him leave the jobsite and promise not to come back for at least three days. Joel doesn’t understand this, because surely Mrs. Jennings would much rather have her kitchen finished in two weeks than three, so it’s a win-win if Joel just powers through. However, this does not go over well with his boss, who informs him that he looks like death warmed over and/or like a shitfield run halfway to seed and/or like his long-dead great aunt Shirley.
Joel thinks one of the three descriptors would’ve made the point well enough.
By day two, Joel’s a bit stir crazy. He usually has at least one side job to work on, but he’s between two right now, so there’s not a damned thing to keep him busy except talking back to broadcast sports announcers. He’s got one eye on the UT baseball game, one eye out the window, and both feet up on the coffee table when he sees something dart across the street and into his yard. He’s so grateful for the distraction he actually sighs, swinging himself up and towards the front door before he even shuts off the game.
When he opens the front door, he cringes. There’s a dog in his bushes – a big one, but real skinny. Joel can see all her ribs, plus most of her spine and her hipbones. She’s got patchy fur, and a couple places are dark and matted like she might’ve been bleeding. Worst of all, she’s quivering. If she wasn’t so weak, she probably already would’ve bolted, but her leg’s at a goofy angle and Joel guesses she might have a break there, too.
Damn it, Joel thinks. Of all the doorsteps, the world’s most pathetic dog had to choose his.
(He always was a dog person.)
He tries to make shushing sounds as he approaches her – slowly, slowly. “It’s alright, dog,” he says, voice low and soothing. “I’m not gonna hurt you, pup. Just c’mere so I can take a look at that leg.”
She’s a pretty thing, red fur and big brown eyes, and she looks pretty much harmless, bony as she is. That is, until Joel extends his hand. He’s just trying to move away some of the branches so he can see her better, but she spooks. She snaps at him, snarling, and he backs away instantly. She’s probably not rabid, but Lord knows Joel’s not taking his chances.
“Shit, dog,” he says. “Didn’t nobody ever tell you not to bite the hand that feeds?”
The dog eyes him warily. He eyes her back.
“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Joel says, scrubbing a hand. “Guess I ain’t fed you yet.”
Which is how he finds himself spending his afternoon in the Petsmart. He lets the salesgirl talk him through the food options, enjoying the feeling of being part of a conversation for the first time in a couple days, even if his responses are quick and gruff. He tries to tell her it’s just for a stray that wandered into his yard, but she cracks a knowing smile and leads him towards accessories.
By the time he leaves, he’s got a bag of food, two dog bowls, and a mat for the ground because apparently it’s not good for injured dogs to be laying in the dirt. He flat-out refuses to buy the collar, even though the salesgirl says it’ll make it easier to take the dog to the vet when she starts letting him get close.
He doesn’t need the collar, because this is not his dog. He is not taking the dog to the vet, because this is not his dog. It’s a step too far, almost, to put out a mat for her. Really, all he needed was the food, which he could’ve put in an old takeout container and left by the side of the road for her.
Jesus, Joel tries to do one nice thing and all of a sudden it’s that stupid picture book he used to read to her, before. If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, or some shit.
And then that thought earns him eight solid minutes of panic attack in the Petsmart parking lot. Thanks a lot, dog.
When he gets home, the dog’s gone, but he has a feeling she’ll be back. She can’t have gone far on her bum leg, and Joel’s house is the one on the corner. There’s more cover, if she’s trying to hide ‘til she can get better. Anyway, she’d better get back, if she knows what’s good for her, ‘cause he’s got food for her and she must be a useless scavenger all busted up like that.
He doesn’t care much, though. This is not his dog.
Either way, he sets out the bowls, fills one with water and the other with kibble. On second thought, he doubles back to the food bowl and drizzles half his TV dinner gravy over it. It tastes like shit, anyway – she can have it. He spreads out the mat over the spot where she was laying when he found her and surveys the setup.
“Not half-bad, dog,” he says into the empty yard. He whistles out of habit, long and low, the way he used to with his dogs when he was a boy. When she doesn’t emerge, he sighs. “Come on back when you’re ready.”
Then he turns and walks inside, settling in for his TV dinner, three beers, and baseball game.
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The next morning is the same. Alarm clock, black coffee, the least dusty pair of jeans Joel’s got, because he doesn’t have work. Anyway, it’s Sunday, and old habits die hard. His Mama would’ve had him in a starched shirt and tie. Que guapo te ves, mijo, she’d say. Well, Joel thinks this oughta do for now.
Joel’s halfway through his breakfast – toast and butter, no jam – when he remembers about the dog. It’s a testament to his compartmentalization skills that he’s made it this long. He finishes chewing and washes his plate before he goes out, trying to ignore the flicker of feeling in his chest. (He doesn’t know what feeling it is, and really doesn’t care to find out.)
Sure enough, the dog’s come back in the night. The food is gone, and there are rust-colored streaks on the mat, like she had slept there overnight and left again in the morning.
“Huh,” Joel remarks to no one. “Would you look at that.”
This is not his dog, of course, but he fills the bowl with more food and fresh water. He even hoses down the mat. It’s not like he has anything else to do today.
While he’s at it with the hose, he gives the truck a quick rinse. Then he realizes the shrubs are looking raggedy, so he trims them and brings the clippings out to the brush pile, which is getting pretty high. The lawn’s looking haggard too, but when he busts out the lawnmower, it sounds asthmatic, so all of a sudden he’s elbow deep in the engine. He needs a part from the hardware store, he realizes, but the dump is on the way so he throws a tarp over the truck bed and drags the brush pile over.
Joel comes up with half a dozen more projects by mid-afternoon. It keeps his mind off things, this constant busyness, and keeps him from drinking ‘til the evening, at least. When he eases the truck back into the driveway, the sun is already going down. He can’t quite tell in the fading light, but he thinks there’s a skinny red smudge under his front porch.
By the time he’s folded up the tarp and put away the new lawnmower part, he’s not sure the dog will still be there. But as he nears the porch, he can hear her grumbling from her spot under the bushes.
“Hello, dog,” says Joel, because he’s nothing if not polite. “You’ve been hungry.”
The second bowl of food has been emptied, and most of the water is gone, too. Joel can’t be sure, but he thinks the dog looks a little better. The dark splotches in her fur look less dubious today, so maybe her wounds are starting to heal. She definitely looks more alert than she was yesterday. He’s surprised when she lets him get close again, deliberately and slowly moving towards her.
Joel doesn’t reach out his hand this time, not eager to be on the receiving end of a bite just yet. But he crouches when he gets near her, and his voice is gentle when he talks. “Well, dog. Maybe now we can see what kind of trouble you’ve been getting yourself into.”
He sees the bum leg still tucked beneath her and sucks in a breath. That’ll need to be checked out by a vet, preferably soon. He feels the reflexive impulse of we can’t afford it, but then he stops. Joel doesn’t have to worry so much about money anymore, not like he used to. He doesn’t have much he needs to spend on, no vacations or shopping sprees or new cars, and he puts in more hours at work than anyone.
He can afford to take this dog to the vet, even though she’s not his dog.
First, he has to see if she’ll let him touch her. He doesn’t think she could jump up into the bed of the truck like this, but he doesn’t think she’ll want to be carried either. Joel sets his jaw when he sees the unnatural angle of her leg. Like it or not, he’s got to get this dog to the vet fast.
Slowly, real slowly, Joel starts to extend his arm. He talks the whole way, just reassurances. “I’m not gonna hurt you, dog, just trying to help. Don’t worry, dog, it’s okay. Gonna get you help.” He’s surprised, how naturally it comes back to him. He hasn’t talked like this in years, not since – well. Suffice to say, it’s been a long time, but apparently offering soothing chitchat is like riding a bike.
The dog still seems suspicious, but she lets him get close enough to sniff. She looks haughty with her nose extended like this, and Joel tries not to laugh. Apparently, he passes her test, because after a few deep sniffs, she drops her head and lets his hand move over her shoulder. Joel lets out a breath.
Then the dog whines. It’s the most mournful sound Joel’s heard a dog make, a noise that says I’m in pain, please help me, and it goes straight to Joel’s gut. If he wasn’t already crouching, his knees probably would’ve buckled. She trusts him. She needs him.
The feeling comes back up, the one from this morning. Joel refuses to look it in the eye. From the ground, the dog continues her baleful whine. Then she turns her big brown eyes on him and thumps her tail twice. God fucking damn it, thinks Joel. I’m not getting out of this now.
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It’s not like Joel adopts the dog after that. He works too many hours, and maybe the dog has a family out there already, just waiting for her to wander back. He doesn’t buy her a collar, he doesn’t let her in the house, and he doesn’t give her a name.
But she starts waiting for him on his porch. When he comes home, she wags her tail and runs big loops around his yard. Sometimes it even makes him laugh. She’s putting on weight, and her leg is almost fully healed. It had only been a sprain after all, so she’s back on it after just a couple weeks. He doesn’t think she’s sleeping in his yard, but the mat’s still there if she needs it, and when he walks past the food bowl in the morning it’s always empty.
That could just be raccoons, though.
It’s a nice addition to his routine. Recently he’s started scratching behind her ears when she greets him. It’s been a while since he’s had something to come home to, other than his three beers and TV dinner. It makes him feel almost human again, less like a robot going through the motions.
The dog isn’t so bad, anyway. She’s well-behaved: she doesn’t jump on him or make a mess on the porch. She doesn’t bark or howl. Mostly she eats her food, comes around some of the time, and stays out of Joel’s way the rest of the time. Joel can respect that. All in all, she’s a pretty good dog. She doesn’t make trouble.
That is, until she brings the girl home.
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Joel knocks off at three o’clock that day, a couple hours earlier than usual. There had been some mix-up with the permit, and since county offices closed at five, it wasn’t going to be worth it for Joel’s team to stay ‘til six like normal. So the boss had sent everybody home, including and especially Joel, for some rest.
Normally Joel would argue, but he really is bone-tired. They’re in the middle of several projects at once, and it’s been weeks since he’s gotten his eight hours. He’s looking forward to a long, lazy afternoon of daytime soaps – his guilty pleasure. He even picks up Chick-fil-a for dinner.
He lets himself hope, just a little, that the dog will be there when he gets home. He’s off his routine today, so he doesn’t hold his breath, but he can’t deny he’d be glad to see her. He thinks idly of letting her up on the porch with him, so she can put her big red head on his knee while he sits on the swing. He even bought her a plain chicken patty.
She’s not his dog, but recently he’s been wondering if it would be so bad if she was. At Home Depot the other day, he found himself looking at doghouse plans and tallying up what the lumber would cost. He feeds her every day, and can’t seem to quit looking for her out the windows.
Mostly, it’s that when she sees him come home, it’s like she’s happy that he’s there. That means something to Joel. Sure, his boss would worry, if Joel stopped showing up, and he’s got Tommy. But to his boss, Joel’s not much more than a strong set of hands, and Tommy’s three states and an overprotective girlfriend away these days. So he finds himself enjoying the dog’s company more than he thought he would.
If he’s honest, he thinks she’s a riot. He likes to watch her run around, with her goofy gait and ears flapping. He likes to watch her pant under all that red fur, then snap her jaws at the water when he tries to cool her off with the hose. He likes when she barks, trying to get his attention so he’ll throw her a stick or scratch her belly the way she likes. She’s a sweet creature, innocent as a child, and somehow she manages to drag a little sweetness out of him, too.
He’s lost on this train of thought for a while, which is probably why he doesn’t notice the laughter right away as he pulls his truck up the driveway. When he shuts off the engine, though, he hears it: bright peals of little-girl laughter. His neighbors have grandkids, so maybe it’s them, but it’s coming from the far side of his yard, where those kids are too polite to play. It’s probably some other neighborhood kid he’ll have to chase off.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. He can’t talk to a little girl. He’s been doing so well, keeping thoughts of his little girl at bay, and he can’t do this right now, he just can’t. The girl is still laughing – what’s so funny, God only knows – so Joel resolves to sneak past her. You can’t quite see the porch from the side yard, so as long as he can get up there and in the house, he’ll be fine. It’s cowardly to sneak past an intruder to your own property, Joel’s well aware, but he can’t talk to a little girl.
He’s halfway up the drive when there’s a red streak in the corner of his vision, and all of a sudden the damn dog is leaping and bounding around in front of him. He can’t spare room for the soft feeling that rises up in his chest, not when his heart is beating so fast.
“Alright, dog, alright,” he says, trying to get around her and in the door before he’s discovered.
But Joel’s plumb out of luck, it seems, because running after the dog is the little girl. She’s out of breath, still halfway laughing, and for a few seconds she doesn’t notice him. In those seconds, her face is wide open in a grin, dark hair wild and posture loose. She can’t be more than thirteen, maybe a small fourteen, and she’s clumsy in the way teenagers are right after a growth spurt. There’s a knife in Joel’s chest, the one that’s been there for twenty years, and it twists.
Joel can see the moment she notices him, because her expression shutters and her shoulders go taut. She freezes ten feet away from him, looking between him and the dog, who is still bounding around, albeit in a slightly more reserved fashion. Joel knows she’s weighing her options with an experience far beyond her years – fight or flight.
She picks fight. Of course she does.
“Who the fuck are you,” she spits at Joel.
He fights the urge to laugh, but his voice comes out gruff. “This is my property,” and almost as an afterthought, he adds, “and this is my dog.”
The dog in question trots between the two of them, tongue lolling out and tail wagging.
The girl’s eyes narrow. “This isn’t your fucking dog, asshole. She’s my dog.”
Joel thinks about this for a second. It’s possible, sure, but he’s pretty sure the dog would be putting on weight faster if she was eating two dinners a day instead of the one she’s getting at his house. Come to think of it, if she really was this kid’s dog, she probably wouldn’t have gotten so skinny in the first place. And he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t be running around without a collar if she had a real owner. Seems like the dog isn’t the kid’s any more than she is Joel’s.
Joel raises his eyebrows, silent. He knows how to get a little girl to break.
This girl is tough as nails, Joel can already tell, but two seconds of his lethal eyebrows and she spills. All her words come out at once, still sharp, but the girl is on the defense now she knows she’s been caught out.
“Okay, fine, so she’s not really my dog, but she can’t be yours either, asshole, ‘cause she doesn’t have a collar, and she’s always really goddamn dirty, and she’s really fucking skinny, too, even if she’s been getting better. Plus, even if she was your fucking dog, she’s mine a little too, ‘cause she always walks to school with me, and when I get home from school we always run up and down the block together, and she actually fucking likes spending time with me, ‘cause she wags her goddamn tail off when she sees me and she doesn’t let the other asshole kids come near her and she scares them away when they try to fucking corner me. So me and her, we’re fucking friends, goddamnit, and you gotta let me see her ‘cause she actually fucking likes me.”
She takes a deep breath after this. She seems partially deflated, but apparently she’s still got gas in the tank, because she finishes primly, “So if you don’t let me see her, you’re an asshole.”
Then she crosses her arms over her chest and glares.
Joel blinks, takes a second. This kid isn’t ninety pounds soaking wet, and she looks raring to fight, but he can also see the fear in her eyes. Her muscles are tensed, ready to run the second he moves towards her, but her gaze flicks to the dog and for half of a second her face softens. Joel's stomach flips. Jesus, he is so not ready for this.
He spares a glance upward, summoning all his strength, and speaks. “Alright.”
The girl pauses, then parrots, “Alright? I can stay?” Her face drops into undisguised hope. Jesus, Joel thinks.
“I don’t know about stay, kid, but you can play with the dog out here ‘til dinner,” he says.
“Yes! Oh, fuck yes,” she crows. “Thank you! Come on, Ranger, let’s go.” They’re halfway across the yard already.
Joel calls after them. “Ranger?”
“That’s her name,” hollers the little girl. She stops to look back at him owlishly. “Like the moon mission, the second one. Unless she has a name already?”
She rolls her eyes like of course Joel should know all the moon missions off the top of his head. It’s clear to Joel that even if he had already named the dog, she wouldn’t have cared.
Joel shakes his head in surrender. “Ranger it is, I guess. There have been stupider names.” He thinks of puffy little dogs named Fifi and Coco and scowls.
He makes to leave, but the girl keeps blinking at him. “I’m Ellie,” she says.
Joel nods an acknowledgement and tries to wave her off, but she looks at him expectantly. He scrubs a hand over his face and prays for strength. He must be getting old, ‘cause all he wants to do is shake his fist and do the time-honored get-off-my-lawn. But the kid’s kind of smiling at him now, and he was never good at saying no to smiling little kids.
“Well, so long as we’re doing names,” Joel sighs. “I’m Joel.”
Ellie brightens. “See ya, Joel. Maybe you’re not an asshole after all.” She pauses to look him up and down – his bewildered expression, scruffy beard, permanent scowl – then grins. “You probably are, though!”
Little shit, Joel thinks. And she’s off, shouting after Ranger as the two of them race up and down the length of his yard. She’s laughing again, loud and bubbling.
Joel kisses his peace and quiet goodbye, and he wishes he could say it was just for the afternoon, but he knows even then. He’s not getting rid of Ellie or the dog that easy.