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The porch had learned him.

It knew the sound his knees made when he stood, the way his weight shifted before he sat, the exact board that dipped because he always landed there. It had taken years, but the wood had adjusted. That seemed fair. He was still working on it.

Ford claimed the left side. Chevy took the rail when it was warm, the chair when it wasn’t. The cooler stayed between them, neutral territory. No one argued about it anymore.

The pills were still in his pocket. He didn’t take them right away now. Not rebellion—delay. He liked the small window where his body still belonged to him before chemistry took over negotiations. The doctor called it wellness. He called it maintenance.

Earlier that day, at the pharmacy, the girl—no, the woman—had touched his hand.

Not accidentally. Not lingering. Just a soft, practiced thing as she explained what the pills did, how often, what to avoid. Younger, but not embarrassingly so. Age-appropriate, like that mattered.

The sensation moved through him fast and clean. A shockwave. Lovely. Immediate.

A smile crept onto his face before he could stop it.

She returned it. Let his hand go, then thanked him with a look that stayed a moment longer than necessary. A woman hadn’t looked at him like that in years. Maybe they had and he hadn’t noticed. Or maybe he hadn’t been ready to be seen—to feel anything other than the familiar ache of grief.

It felt like cheating on Olma Jean.

One of the last things OJ said—voice already thinning, eyes still sharp—was that he should live his life without her. Find someone. Share it. He’d called it hogwash at the time. Still did.

But he hadn’t pulled his hand away.

Because her touch proved something.
That he still existed.
That he was alive and visible, even if only for a moment.

It was nice to be seen.

He gathered his things quickly. Too quickly. He needed distance—from the counter, from the light, from what the moment threatened to become. Outside, he sat in his pickup with the bag of meds on the seat beside him and a fresh supply of treats for Ford and Chevy rattling in the cup holder.

Inside, the house still smelled faintly like citrus if the light hit it right. The juicer sat on the counter, dust settled into its seams. He hadn’t cleaned it. Couldn’t bring himself to. Everything turns permanent if you don’t argue back.

He sat down on the porch again, pills still in his pocket, the echo of that touch lingering longer than it had any right to.

He said the words out loud, just to hear them land.

He was still here.

The porch did not respond. It didn’t need to.

But for the first time in a long while, he didn’t sit because he was tired.

He sat because he wasn’t done.