Chapter 7
L ater that evening, Seth reheated some chicken and rice soup he bought from the diner and brought it to the recliner on a tray. “Dinner,” he said simply, setting the tray on the small table in front of Chester.
Chester blinked awake, eyes foggy with sleep. He took the tray without comment, then stared at the spoon as if it were something foreign in his hand.
Seth knelt down in front of him. “It’s just soup, Pops. Chicken and rice.”
“I can feed myself,” Chester snapped, his voice low and rough. His hand trembled as he picked up the spoon.
Seth hesitated, then sat back on his heels. “Right. I’ll be here if you need me. ”
Chester managed a few bites. Slow. Careful. After a moment, he set the spoon down with a quiet clink against the bowl. “Your mother used to make this kind of soup.”
“I know.”
Seth had watched her make it hundreds of times. He could make it in his sleep, but the diner’s was easier and tasted good.
They sat in silence again. Not the brittle kind they used to fall into, full of resentment and unsaid words. This silence was softer. Heavier. Sadder.
And on Seth’s end, it was more forgiving.
“Why’d you come back?” Chester asked suddenly, his voice quieter than before.
Seth looked at him. “Because you’re my dad.”
Chester gave a quiet grunt. He didn’t say more. But he didn’t need to.
As the sky outside the window turned gold with sunset and Gomer snored softly at Chester’s feet, Seth sat beside his father and let the quiet hold them both.
He realized then that the strife between them might never be resolved. But maybe that wasn’t the point anymore. Maybe now it was just about being here while there was still time left.
The next morning, Seth went out for a jog. He left Gomer in Chester’s room with his father, figuring he’d exercise the dog later, after taking him to see the vet about his arthritis.
He wasn’t gone long. Maybe thirty, thirty-five minutes, tops. But when he returned, the back door was wide open. Seth dropped the water bottle he’d been carrying, and it hit the porch with a dull thud.
His heart lurched. The kitchen was empty. Too quiet. The coffee pot sat cold and untouched. Chester’s mug was already in the sink, and it was clean.
“Dad?” he called out as he moved quickly through the kitchen. “Gomer?”
No answer.
Seth jogged through the house, calling louder this time.
He checked the bathroom, then the spare room.
Nothing. He ran outside. The barn was empty.
Panic prickled under his skin, hot and cold all at once.
He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door.
The early fall air had bite, and if Chester had gone out without his coat …
Seth bolted. It took him nearly ten minutes to find them .
Chester was walking straight into the pasture a mile down the dirt road. He was in sock feet and flannel pajamas. Gomer padded beside him, the big shepherd sticking close but looking backward toward Seth and barking.
That was what led Seth to them. God knew it would’ve taken twice as long without Gomer’s alert, loud and sharp in the morning quiet.
Chester had a bridle in one hand, his other swinging loosely at his side.
He kept calling out. “Dusty! Come on, boy! Dusty!”
Seth’s chest tightened. Dusty had been gone for more than ten years. Seth approached carefully, not wanting to startle him.
“Pops?” he said softly. “Hey, what are you doing out here?”
Chester turned toward him, squinting against the sun. “Where the hell is the horse? I can’t run the damn fence line without him.”
Seth exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. “Dusty’s gone, Pops. Remember? Besides, we’re not riding today. Come on. Let’s head back. We both need a cup of coffee.”
Frowning, Chester looked down at the bridle in his hand like it had betrayed him .
“Somebody took him. I know it.”
Seth stepped closer. “Nobody took him. He’s been gone a long time.” A beat passed. Then two.
And Chester’s face crumpled. His anger dissolved, replaced by something lost and frightened. “I can’t find the damn barn,” he whispered. “Where’s the barn, Seth?”
“It’s okay. I got you, Pops.”
Seth slid an arm gently around his father’s shoulders and slowly turned him back toward the house. “Let’s go home. I’ll get you some coffee.”
Chester muttered under his breath the entire way back.
His tone was rough, disoriented, and agitated.
Seth said nothing. He just listened. Each mumbled word was proof his father didn’t understand where he was or what had just happened.
When they stepped into the kitchen, Chester walked to the fridge, opened it, and tried to place the bridle inside.
Seth moved to stop him, reaching for the reins.
“I’m not stupid!” Chester shouted, jerking the leather out of his hands. “I know what I’m doing!”
Seth clamped his jaw shut, the muscles in his neck locked tight.
God, he wanted to yell. Slam a door. Shout at the unfairness of it all.
Shake something until the fear shook loose from his chest. But he didn’t.
He breathed. In. Out. Count to ten. Then, in the quietest voice he could manage, he said, “I know, Dad. I know. Let’s sit down, all right? ”
Eventually, Chester did. He dropped into his recliner with a weight that seemed to deflate him completely. His hands shook. His breath came shallow. His eyes stared past the window, vacant and unfocused.
Something had been taken from Chester that morning, and Seth felt like he was standing in the rubble of that violence, powerless to rebuild it.
He brought a cup of coffee and handed it to Chester, who stared at it for a long moment before taking a sip. When he looked up, his eyes were glassy, glistening with tears. “I think something’s wrong with me, Seth,” he whispered.
Seth sat down across from him, his voice soft, steady. “Yeah, Pops. I know. But you’re not alone. You’ll never be alone again. I’m here. I got you.”
Just past sunset, Seth sat at the kitchen table surrounded by a small mountain of paperwork. There were bills, brochures, pamphlets with resources for caregivers, options for memory care …
All of it heavier than stone. He rubbed the back of his neck, blinking through the weight of decision fatigue, when he heard the soft shuffle of sock-covered feet in the hallway.
Chester appeared in the doorway wearing plaid pajama pants and a faded old T-shirt that read Property of the U.S. Army, 1964.
Seth had no idea where the shirt had come from. Chester was never in the Army. And definitely not in 1964.
“Are you making popcorn?” Chester asked.
Seth blinked. “No, but I could.”
Chester sniffed the air. “I smell it. I smell popcorn.”
Seth laughed under his breath. “You smell the dog’s feet. I just put ointment on one. Gomer ripped a gash between his paw pads while he was out in the field with you today.”
Chester squinted at Gomer, who was stretched out nearby.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “Damn dog smells like popcorn. And you know what? That dog likes me.”
Seth smiled, his chest warming. “He sure does, Pops.”
And Seth was sure of that fact. Gomer had not left Chester’s side since they’d returned home that morning. The old shepherd had chosen his next duty.
Chester.
Seth laughed, really laughed, for the first time in days. “You want me to make some popcorn anyway?”
Chester shrugged and wandered into the kitchen. He opened the cabinet like it was routine, like nothing at all had happened that morning. “If we’re eating dog feet, we might as well put butter on them.”
Seth grabbed a bag from the shelf and tossed it into the microwave. “I’ll take mine with extra toenails.”
Chester cracked a smile and lowered into the chair across from him. “You always were a weird kid.”
“And you were the one who let me build a catapult in the backyard.”
“Hell of a shot, though,” Chester said. “You launched your cousin’s bike clean over the chicken coop.
” They both chuckled, the sound soft and full of memory.
And for a brief moment, the fog seemed to lift from Chester’s face.
His eyes were sharp. His smile was real, not tight or confused, but natural. Alive.
“I miss your mama,” Chester said after a quiet pause. “She always burned the popcorn, but she made it anyway.”
Seth nodded, his voice quiet. “I miss her, too.”
The microwave dinged. He stood and poured the popcorn into a bowl, adding extra butter just the way his dad liked it. Carrying it back to the table, he set it down between them and took a seat across from Chester.
They passed the bowl back and forth in silence, each man reaching in, eating, and chewing with no conversation necessary. Just two souls who had once been oceans apart settling into the rhythm of something that felt like old times.
Eventually, Chester leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. “You gonna tell the neighbors I lost a horse that’s been dead for a decade?”
Seth grinned. “Only if you tell them I cried during Field of Dreams when we watched it last night.”
Chester snorted, then shook his head. “That part where the dad shows up? Gets me every damn time.”
Seth’s smile softened, his eyes meeting his father’s. “Yeah, me, too, Pops.”
For that one night, the diagnosis didn’t matter. The wandering, the fear, hell, even the doctors’ appointments … all of it faded to the background .
They just were. A father and a son, passing a bowl of buttery popcorn and sharing the kind of quiet that only came from love that had weathered distance, time, and pain. Just a moment of peace before the storm returned.