Epilogue

The winter wind shakes the house, screaming over the water and through the windbreak of juniper trees. Over the roar of the day-old northeaster, Keller hears scratching at the back door. It is a delicate sound, like the very tips of a sapling’s branches brushing against a screen. It deepens. No longer random, the scratching at the door is deliberate and purposeful. Insistent. Demanding. Keller pulls himself out of his chair, finds his slippers with his toes. The house is dark. Either he’s forgotten to turn on the lights or the electricity is out. But Keller isn’t hampered by the darkness; indeed, he sees his way clearly as he walks toward the sound.

Keller opens the back door. Now there is no wind, no cold air, no sleet, no sound at all. Pax is there, his tail wagging like mad, like it always does when Keller has been absent for a while.

“Well, there, Pax. Where’ve you been?” Keller kneels and wraps his arms around the dog, who raises his muzzle so that he can lick Keller’s face. “I’ve missed you.”

Pax shakes himself free and sits in front of Keller. He’s wearing his flat leather on-duty collar and his long canvas military lead is attached to it. He faces the empty distance beyond the open door, then swings his big head back to Keller, his eyes bright with expectation, his mouth open in a doggy grin. He barks once.

“Time to go?” Keller takes up the leash.

The dog stands and shakes himself again. Ready.

“Okay, Pax. Let’s go.”