But it was the jacket hanging over the steering wheel—the cracked leather and faded wool of Mark’s old varsity jacket—that stopped him cold. His father confessed to placing it there every afternoon, rolling down the windows, turning on the classic rock station Mark loved. It was the only thing that would get Rusty to eat. The ritual convinced the old dog that Mark was just inside the gas station, ready to return at any moment.
In the dim light of the garage, father and son stood together in their shared grief, realizing that Rusty had been holding on not out of stubbornness, but out of loyalty. He was waiting for one last drive, one last moment with the boy who had once meant the world to him.
Mark had come home late—later than he should have. But he came home. And Rusty, faithful until his final breath, had waited for exactly that.
