Never underestimate the power of bacon.

It sizzles in my inherited cast iron pan, decades after my childhood ended. The meat candy smoke fills the house and wafts out the windows like a nostalgic siren song. It wraps around your senses, entices you to come closer. Come in, grab a plate. It smells like breakfast. It smells like Saturday. It smells like family.

Some argue bacon is all you need. Maybe that’s true for a Tuesday morning bite or part of a Wednesday afternoon sandwich. But a big Saturday breakfast demands more. And more is what I have.

If it were just me, it would be too much. This mountain of pancakes, heap of eggs, and paper towel mesa of bacon isn't all mine. It's for my sister Nicole and her son Noah. I may have gone overboard this time. They know to come hungry.

I check the clock. They should be here in five minutes.

My phone buzzes and a text rolls in.

Sorry last minute, can’t come to breakfast.

She should have left like twenty minutes ago, and she’s texting now? I call her back. She’s not going to hide behind her phone.

“Hi, Mike.” Her voice sounds guilty. But there’s something else, an edge of trouble.

“I made all this food, sis. You’re standing me up?” Every burner blazes blue and orange flames under my breakfast overproduction.

“I know, I’m so sorry. I just can’t today.” Her voice cracks, this is not my snarky and hilarious sister.

My chest flares with protectiveness. “Is Noah okay?”

“He’s fine.” She exhales into the phone.

“Wait, is it Ian?” Her husband is a jackass, and everyone but her knows it.

There’s a long pause and then, “I gotta go, sorry.” She chokes out the words and hangs up.

Well. I look at my phone as if the blank screen has an answer key. The free fall of thwarted plans blindsides me but I don’t have long to think about it.

The bacon is smoking like crazy. I don’t want the fire alarm screaming through my skull, so I pull everything off the heat. So much for tradition.

I prop open the kitchen side door for fresh air, salvage what I can and pile my plate. I’ve waited long enough and I’m ready for some sweet homemade breakfast platter. If no one else is coming, I’m going to eat, dammit.

The last batch is overdone. I took my eyes off the stove and my perfect cooking rhythm crashed into an overdone cacophony. My cooking’s not as good as Mom’s. Or, maybe my memories of her meals are more delicious than reality. Every Saturday growing up we had a big breakfast. When I moved back into the family house, I picked up the tradition.

This was my parents’ house but they aren’t here anymore. They left it to us kids and I bought my siblings out, but still — I live in the house I grew up in. I don’t know what that says about me. It’s this little post-war tract house someone once called adorable. I don’t use that word, but I guess you could say that. I made it less adorable when I remodeled it man style. Now it has custom wood everything, leather furniture, art, and no clutter. It’s not perfect; I need a bigger workshop but it works for now.

After I left the Army, my brother Josh hooked me up with carpentry. It was just the thing. I like working with my hands and paying attention to detail. I apprenticed and got my master certification and now I build expensive kitchens for rich people. Everyone wants the same thing over and over. This is terrific for business but boring for me. So, this house gets all the epic woodworking that other people don’t want to pay for.

I’ve added some twists to the Saturday morning tradition. My old man didn’t make pancakes shaped like dinosaurs or zoo animals. He didn’t let a six-year-old have free access to a can of whipped cream. We didn’t have breakfast cocktails, which we sometimes add when there’s a large crowd. Mom always played the Rolling Stones when Dad wasn’t around, so I added it to the Saturday lineup in her honor.

Nicole and Noah come often, but she’s been flaking lately. I think she craves the family thing as much as I do, so I’m not sure what’s going on. It probably has to do with her loser husband who thinks a fifth of vodka is a complete breakfast.

I don’t know why I do it. Dad took over the kitchen and ordered us around like we were new recruits at boot camp. He acted as if Mom wasn’t the one who actually ran the house. Even so, we looked forward to it. Family time, I guess. Or maybe it was just the lure of hot breakfast. Here I am, twenty-nine years old, burning bacon on a Saturday morning to carry a tradition by myself.

An unfamiliar noise rustles in the front of the house. I notice everything anyway, but being in dangerous places in the Army trained me to be on high alert. Something scuffles in the bushes, maybe it’s the neighbor’s cat? I keep one ear open and cut my food in precise pieces as I eat. My childhood prepared me for the Army, and both made me who I am today. Everything can always be done in an organized way, as long as you aren’t a dickhead about it.

That’s the difference between me and my old man. I’m sure if you asked Nicole she would disagree there is much difference. Sisters are like that.

My garbage can crashes outside. It’s not the big wheeled one. It’s just the old-school silver job I use to separate my recycling, so it’s extra loud. What the fuck is going on out there? I put down my fork and eye my plate. It’s going to be ice cold when I get back, but I need to investigate.

I did some stuff with a shrink when I got out of the Army so that I didn’t try to kill everyone who startled me. It helped me a lot. Even so, I wouldn’t recommend creeping around my house.

Something dug a hole in my flower bed and trash is everywhere. My garbage can rolls back and forth on its side. Raccoon? Raccoons are mean and smart. They are also nocturnal, so that’s probably not what’s out this morning.

Whatever it was is gone, so I pick up the trash. It’s all recycling, so I’m not sure there’s much here for foraging. I do a perimeter check, find another hole, but no one claiming it. The holes aren’t that deep. What could be doing that? A dog?

I get back inside the front door and take off my muddy shoes. I just mopped all this wood and I like it clean.

My ears prick, something’s in my kitchen. My chest thumps, it’s like I’m back in the sandbox. Breathe. Sweat hits me. Whatever it is will regret breaking into my house. I almost feel sorry for the asshole.

I creep to the doorway and turn the corner, fast.

A golden retriever puppy is standing on my kitchen table going to town on my breakfast.

“Hey!” My voice startles him and he looks up with a piece of bacon in his mouth like it’s a bone. His eyes widen and he leaps onto the floor in panic. A yelp shocks out of him when he hits the ground. Is he hurt or was it just a long way down? He tucks his long puppy tail all the way under so it’s up to his belly. He crouches and cowers on the floor.

Through all this, he does not let go of the bacon.

Puppy eyes look up at me so I can see the whites like, I’m sorry. His fur is dirty and he’s kind of skinny, like junkyard dog skinny. I don’t think puppies are supposed to show all their ribs like that. He looks like he needs that bacon more than I do.

Will he let me pick him up? I never had a dog because Colonel Dad wouldn’t let me. Dogs are dirty, he said. I can still hear his voice in my head as I look at the little puppy. I tell myself my dad is dead, he doesn’t have a say anymore. This is my house now.

I had friends with dogs, so I know how to hold them and can get him to let me pick him up. This little guy doesn’t look menacing; if anything I’m the scary one. He does look dirty but my shirt is washable. Of all the problems an intruder could bring, a dirty shirt is a pretty good one.

He stays down, cowering, but wolfs down the bacon.

“Hey little guy, where did you come from?” I hold my hand out as I approach and he rolls over onto his back, still down. I’m no dog whisperer but I’d say he isn’t going to bite me.

I scoop him up with one hand. He fits almost in my palm. His heart pounds under my fingers. I hold him close against my chest and he struggles for a second and then calms. He leans his head against me and wags his tail. What do I know about dogs? They probably shouldn’t eat bacon.

David had dogs, lots of them. It was like everywhere we went, he found an animal to rescue. A stab goes through my chest. I need to stop thinking about him. He’s not my best friend anymore. He’s not my anything anymore. I don’t even know where he is, the rest of the universe has moved on. And here I am, beginning yet another day thinking about him. I haven’t seen him in ten years. Every damn day my brain comes up with an excuse to evoke him until I can squash the thoughts back down.

The dog wriggles in my arms, bringing me back to the present. He’s trying to get back to my breakfast plate. I can’t blame him, Saturday breakfast is delicious. At least someone wants to come to my party.

“I don’t think dogs are supposed to eat bacon and eggs.” I hold him in my right arm while I move the plate to the counter with my left. I don’t dare put him down in case he runs away.

My neighbors had golden retrievers. Didn’t they move? I look out the window to confirm, yeah the house is empty, the yard is overgrown.

“Did they leave you here?” I pet his soft dirty head and he looks up at me like, please don’t kick me out.

Maybe I’m imagining things, thinking I can read this dog’s thoughts. I probably spend too much time alone.

Doggy smell. Soft dirty fur. Muddy paws. My senses fill with these additions. I run my fingers over his feet to wipe some of the mud away. When I get to his front paws he yelps and pulls his right one back. He lunges his head forward like he’s going to bite me but then he holds back, and licks my hand. He’s apologizing because I hurt him.

He is definitely someone’s dog. Or was. “You used to have a family, didn’t you?” Yep, I’m talking to the puppy.

He looks up at me and wags his tail. “You’re killing me with those puppy dog eyes.” I snort at my stupid joke. If he used to have a home, he doesn’t anymore. I look at my kitchen full of food for my no-show family. I threw a breakfast, and this little stranger showed up and helped himself. Such is the power of bacon.

My mind clicks through my day. I have an appointment for a kitchen consult and a remodel to check if they are ready for me. Those aren’t until later, so my morning is open.

The vet will know my neighbors’ cell phone number. If I placed a bet, I’d say he was theirs and they left him. People are assholes.

“We gotta get that paw looked at.” I scratch him on his neck. He leans in, taking all the love I’ll give him. He’s so trusting and helpless.

I pull my phone out and google the vet. A quick call, they’re open, yes I can come right now. They have time. Fuck. I just detailed my truck. “You can stay on a blanket, right Bacon?” He licks my hand and looks at me like I’m his new best friend.

I’m probably projecting.

* * *

Driving’s a trick. The dog’s scared and pees on the blanket. Fuck. He wants to be in my lap. I’m one hundred percent sure this is not how I’m supposed to transport a puppy. It’s just a slow crawl across town so I get him to stay right next to me and kind of put my arm around him as we go. He cried again when I touched his right paw, so I’m glad we’re getting in today.

His ears flap a little as we rumble down the road. My whole truck smells like dog. I glance down. My shirt is covered with dog. Everything is dog. I’m going out in public in a dirty shirt. I know what my old man would say. “I told you dogs were dirty.”

I gather him up and carry him in. The waiting room is all tile. The light bounces in from windows all around and off the white floor. Tile. That’s a good idea. Too bad my truck isn’t tile. Too bad my shirt isn’t tile.

A woman with silver hair comes out through a door with a giant white dog. I’ve never seen a dog that size. She smiles at me, this huge sunny grin. I smile back. Is this what it’s like to have a dog? Does everyone smile at you? If you have a dog everyone is your friend?

I juggle him in my arms as the receptionist hands me a clipboard and a bunch of forms. She’s beaming. I look over my shoulder, is she smiling at someone? Oh, it’s me, because I have a dog.

This form is hilarious. Dog name? Age? Vaccinations? He’s in my left arm, the clipboard on my right knee, and I’m writing with my right. It’s like some kind of field test. I finally just put my information and an explanation of why I’m there and hand it back.

I lean back in the chairs with the puppy on my lap. He has made himself right at home in my arms. We settle in to wait. I’m patient. It’s pleasant in here. There’s air conditioning, plants, and sunlight. Sounds bounce around the hard surfaces. I smell like bacon and eggs and pancakes. And dog. I pet his soft head and he snuffles my hands.

The nurse calls us back. I scoop him up, hold him close so he doesn’t fret or squirm out of my arms, and in we go. She has me put him on a table, and he’s flirting with her, tail going crazy. What would it take to make this dog mad? He’s so friendly, and everyone is excited about the puppy. Don’t they see puppies all day?

She says no, they see a lot of old and sick animals. They only sometimes see puppies and they are usually happy appointments. That makes sense. She’s smiling at me this whole time too. I’m at the friendliest place on earth.

She checks his paw first, does his weight and stats. She asks me a bunch of questions. I end up telling her the whole story to explain why I don’t know how old he is, I don’t know what kind of food he eats, and I don’t know anything else either. She takes us to a room and says the doctor will be right in. I keep him scooped in my arms. It’s a big office, and I don’t want him to get lost or something.

Bacon is a little turned around, so I pet him and soothe him in my lap.

The doctor comes in. He’s blonde, and has that lanky athletic thing going on—long limbs and built like a swimmer. He’s all lean, different than me, and just my type. I’m more like the Hulk, plus tattoos, minus the green skin.

He’s not smiling. Instead, he has a weird look on his face, and then I realize I know him.

David Parker.

Fuck.