“You ready, buddy?” Trig Whatley put a pillow on the front bucket seat of his Mustang and hefted his dog into place. Clovis was simply too fat to make the leap from the parking lot into the car. The basset hound was downright obese. While he was supposed to be Trig’s emotional support dog, it would appear that Clovis needed support too. He had a mean Milk Bone habit. Add to that the Beggin’ Strips addiction and he was in need of a twelve-step program. The dog settled into the pillow, lowered his muzzle and closed his eyes.

Trig looked over his shoulder to the water. He would miss living at the beach. He’d done a lot of healing and a lot of hurting here. It was on the strand, the wide cement walkway where he trained for the Rock and Roll Marathon. He looked at the waves and recalled the first time he’d body boarded after the accident. Terrified the salt water would irritate his already unhappy stump, he put off going into the water for months, but there were too many string bikinis diving into the surf to ignore. In the water, he appeared to be just like everyone else. It was when he got on land that the differences were noted.

The men looked at him like he was less than them and the women stared at him with pity.

That was where the hurt began. He could overcome the physical pain of losing his left leg below the knee, but the emotional pain was brutal. He was no less of a man than the day his Humvee was destroyed by an IED.

He gave the beach one last look and backed out of the parking lot. He’d sublet his studio apartment to a guy from his gym. Trig had no idea where this visit would lead but he hoped it would give him some clarity. With a permanent disability check, he wasn’t hurting for cash but he was hurting. All Trig wanted was to find a place where he felt normal, and to find a woman who would look at him and know that missing a leg didn’t make him less in any way.

“And we’re off.”

Clovis lifted his head.

“You, my friend, need more exercise.” He took the last Beggin’ Strip from the bag he had shoved into the cup holder and gave it to the dog. “This is the last one. We are cutting back on shit that isn’t good for us. I’m giving up feeling sorry for myself, and you’re giving up empty calories and all-day naps.”

The dog chewed on the treat slowly, like he was savoring the snack because it was his last. They pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store to get supplies for the trip.

“You want to come with me or stay in the car?”

Clovis looked at him, gave him a shake of his tail and went back to sleep.

“Suit yourself, but you’re getting carrot sticks from here on out.”

Trig wondered if Clovis was depressed. He’d watched Trig pack up their belongings. He’d gone with him to storage on several occasions. Over the last few weeks, they’d been living out of boxes while Trig decided where to go on their first adventure. When a call came from his army buddy Bowie telling him he should visit, Trig didn’t hesitate to say yes.

He got out of the car and pulled his pant leg over his prosthetic. He had several now. The first one he got looked like a shoe on a stick. The second one was modeled after his good leg minus the scarring from shrapnel. The third was his favorite. The blade runner was the most comfortable because it was designed for running. It was like walking on a springy cloud. It also got him through the marathon. While he didn’t come in first, he did pass the finish line before many able-bodied racers. Today he wore the shoe on a stick because it had a loose fit and felt more comfortable on long trips.

He walked through the store, throwing protein bars, bags of nuts and fruit in his cart. He got the baby carrots for Clovis and a case of water for them both.

“Excuse me.” A sweet voice came from the end of the aisle. “Can you help me reach something?”

He turned to see a hot redhead stepping onto the bottom shelf in front of her. “Wait, I’ll get it.”

She giggled and blushed as he walked over. This was how it always started—nice flirtatious conversation.

“What flavor were you reaching for?” Why the stockers put things so high was beyond him. He’d found it frustrating to accomplish anything when he’d been wheelchair bound. Hard to believe that was only two years ago.

“I really like the peach tea.” She pointed to the top of a beverage display. “But that’s the only one left and I can’t reach it.”

“No problem.” He lifted on his right leg and caught the box by his fingertips. Trig yanked it forward, not realizing he’d loosened the row below it. Without warning, the entire display toppled over with him tumbling with it. Before he knew it, he was on his back surrounded by a sea of Snapple. In his hands, raised above his head, was the box he’d reached for.

“Success.” He handed the woman the box and struggled to his feet.

“Oh my God, you’re soaked.” She pulled the roll of paper towels from her cart and went straight to dabbing him dry. He tried to move out of her reach, but she followed his retreat.

“I’m fine. You don’t have to—”

She wrapped her hands around his prosthetic leg, trying to dry his pants, then stopped. Her eyes lifted to his face. “Oh shit, you’re handicapped.”

Once again, he was no longer just a man helping out a woman. He moved back and gave her a look he knew frightened her by the way she scurried away from him.

“No, I’m handy. I was the one who got your tea. Let’s leave it at that.”

She let her chin drop and her shoulders round. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Thank you for your help.”

Trip nodded and walked away in his tea-soaked pants. He wondered why it felt like he was the one who had to educate the world.

He threw a few more items into his cart and made his way to the checkout.

“Let me get your groceries,” the woman he’d helped said from behind him.

He bristled at the offer. While he was sure it was meant as a kind gesture, it still bothered him.

“Why?” He loaded his items onto the belt.

“It’s the least I can do for your help.”

“Would you have bought the groceries for a different person who helped or is it because I have one leg?” He pushed the issue because he was tired of feeling different. The only way to stop that would be to make people realize how differently they treated him.

She looked down at his left foot. The hem of his khaki pants appeared brown.

“You’re right. I probably would have said thank you and moved on.”

“So do it.”

She bit her lip. When it popped free she asked, “Do what?”

Trig smiled. “Say thank you and move on.”

She nodded. “Thank you.” She gave him a last look before she stepped away and continued her shopping.

The cashier told him his total and added, “You were amazing.”

Trig looked up to see an older woman smile. “Why?”

“Because you taught her something she’ll never forget.” She leaned over the counter and looked at his wet pants. “War injury or something else?”

“IED,” he said like it was everyday conversation. “Amputation below the knee.”

She nodded. “My son lost his arm. Hates the sad looks and pity parties.” She processed his payment and bagged up his purchases. “Thank you for your service and your sacrifice. Don’t forget, you’re more of a man now than you ever were.”

Trig picked up his bags and made his way back to the Mustang. If that cashier hadn’t been nearing sixty, he would have fallen in love with her.

He tossed the bags into the back seat and opened the trunk to get a change of clothes. In five minutes, he and Clovis were back on the road.

Many hours later, his phone rang. He knew by the ringtone it was Bowie. He was the only one linked to “The Army Goes Rolling Along.”

“What’s up, Sarge?”

“Stop with the Sarge shit,” Bowie said. “I no longer outrank you.”

Trig laughed. “Dude, you saved my life. You’ll always outrank me.” The nightmares had finally passed, but he still had dreams of Sergeant Bishop telling him he’d be okay as he tightened the tourniquet around his leg. All he could see was Bowie’s blood soaking the desert sand beneath them. He’d seen to Trig’s injuries before his own. He’d always been a good leader, but that day was a testament to Bowie’s character. He’d taken care of his men first.

“Where are you at?”

“I’m about six hours from Denver, then three from you, I guess. There’s been a storm chasing my ass all the way from Albuquerque, but I’ve been able to outrun it.”

“You’re driving all the way through in one shot?”

“If I stop I might not make it there. I’m in the Mustang.”

“You got chains?”

“No, but I’ve got caffeine and desire. That’s got to count for something.”

Bowie laughed. “Yep, lack of brains. You’ll never make it over the pass.”

“I’ll get there.” He gave Clovis a quick glance. “Worst case, I’ll have Clovis hooked up to sled and he can drag my tired ass there.”

“He still living on bacon and biscuits?”

“Nope, he’s transitioned to carrot sticks and grain-free kibble.” Trig reached over to pet Clovis, who was happily lying on his back, all four paws sticking up toward the soft top of his car.

“Be safe. Call me if you get stuck. I’ll come and get you.”

“Will do.” He hung up and popped the top on another can of Jolt. As he drove through the eastern part of Colorado stopping off at Fort Carson to quickly see a buddy, the clouds thickened and the flakes grew larger. Things were looking ugly outside.

As he left Denver and entered the mountains, he knew he had a fifty-fifty shot of getting to Aspen Cove by nightfall. He whizzed past a white Jeep going no more than thirty miles an hour and hoped he could beat the storm all the way there. Those hopes were dashed when he reached the turnoff to take him between Mount Meeker and Longs Peak. His car fishtailed and he found himself plunged into a snow bank on the side of the road where no amount of spinning his wheels would unstick him.

Clovis started to whine, which meant he needed a potty break. Trig opened the door and Clovis took off toward the edge of the woods. Trig ran after him but the snow got deeper and deeper.

“Clovis, get over here,” Trig yelled. His voice echoed in the eerie silence of the snowfall. He searched the edge of the tree line for the sausage-shaped dog. He heard a yelp before the dog hopped and sunk and hopped and sunk into the snow all the way back.

Trig swept him up into his arms. “You silly boy. You could have been buried in that mess.” He placed Clovis back on the front seat pillow.

After a few swipes of his paws to his eyes, Clovis was back asleep and Trig pulled out his phone to call for help. Help he’d never reach without a signal, which he didn’t have. His best hope now was for someone as stupid as him to be traveling in the weather to pass him by.

He eyed the road for over an hour while the snow built up on his car. No one was traveling in this mess. In another hour, his red Mustang would be covered in white and no one would see him. In the distance, he thought he saw the glow of headlights.

“Come on, Clovis, you’re our ticket to a ride.” Trig was smart enough to know that no one would stop for a single man, but add in a dog and he’d get a ride for sure. Make it a basset hound with those long floppy ears and eyes that pleaded his case, and they’d be in Aspen Cove in no time.

He stood by the side of the road and waved his arms as the car approached slowly. Clovis did his part by shivering and looking pathetic.