I’m Caleb, 26. I deliver medical supplies in all weather. My partner is my three-legged Lab, Mooney, who I got after my Army best friend Bennett was killed overseas. Bennett made sure Mooney survived after being hit by a truck, then told our unit to give him to me if he didn’t make it.
A year later, during a brutal winter shift, I stopped at a gas station and saw an older man struggling to get gas from a rusty van. He wore a faded Army jacket, his hands cracked and bleeding. I offered money; he refused with quiet pride, saying he was waiting on paperwork and waiting for someone.
As I walked away, Mooney lost it—not aggressive, but desperate. I opened the door and he sprinted across the icy lot on three legs, throwing himself against the man like he’d found someone he’d been missing.
The man knelt automatically, holding Mooney, and softly said, “Hey, Moon.”
Nobody calls him that.
He looked up at me and said my name. He was Bennett’s father, Graham. Bennett had told him to find me—and to not let either of us disappear.
We shared soup and bad coffee and traded stories about Bennett. Graham had lost his house, his phone, and was stuck waiting on the VA. I invited him to stay one night. One night became a week. We fixed his paperwork, and eventually he got his pension and a small apartment.
Now we have Sunday dinners. He fixes things around my place. Mooney splits his loyalty between us. And every time Graham scratches his ears and says, “Hey, Moon,” I hear Bennett.
We both almost walked away that day.
Good thing my dog didn’t.