“Sí. Hasta la próxima semana, amigo,” Gabe said, glad at the ease with which the words came. He’d taken a few semesters of Spanish in high school and college but wanted to brush up after struggling through a few appointments at his office with Hispanic customers who spoke little English.

With Samson tagging along at his side, Gabe headed out into the rain. After Samson scent marked on a bush or two, Gabe pulled the step stool from the back seat of his seven-year-old Toyota Tacoma that enabled Samson to keep getting in and out with ease.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

As Samson lumbered onto the stool, then onto the back seat of the Tacoma, he let out a well-timed grunt as if in answer. Not that Gabe could remember a time that Samson wasn’t down for a burger.

Five years ago, when Samson was in his prime and Gabe was smack-dab in his midtwenties, a Saturday hadn’t passed that he hadn’t stopped by one burger joint or another, treating them both to a burger or two, keeping Samson’s plain and his loaded. Now, four months out from hitting thirty and having learned to appreciate human health a bit more as a side effect of vet school, Gabe tended to take Samson on Saturday hikes instead.

Once Samson was loaded into the back, Gabe headed to the nearest gas station, filled up his tank, and pulled up the maps app in his phone, debating whether to swing by his house before getting on the highway. It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive south to New Madrid from Webster Groves. Depending on what sort of help was needed, it’d probably be pushing midnight before he was back. But worst-case scenario, he kept enough supplies in the back under cover of the camper shell to spend a night away without wasting the time now.

Yun texted that medical supplies were on-site and followed up with a dozen emoji prayer hands, hearts, and a few thumbs-up—he was betting just because she knew he wasn’t a fan of emojis. Finished gassing up, Gabe sat in his truck and texted back that he was headed out, then followed with two periods, a l, and another two periods, the closest he’d get to sending an emoji.

Funny, Gabe. You’ll thank me later.

She followed with a wink, and Gabe dropped his phone onto his passenger seat, shaking his head. After a pit stop at Five Guys, he made his way to Interstate 55. He drove through the rain, playing music loud to combat the fatigue of a long week, the soft, steady rain, and the blanket of dull-gray skies overhead. The fact that Samson was sprawled across the back seat, snoring heavily, wasn’t helping.