Jim hated funerals. He’d been to four in the last fifteen years, three of which Doc was also at. This time was different. This time, Jim was alone. Those who knew Doc either lived too far away to attend a funeral or wake in his honor or died. A lot of veteran pals were either left for dead in a country thousands of miles from Iowa or cremated, now scattered into the air, a permanent part of our world. Doc’s estate wasn’t all that significant. At least that’s what the local Spiner lawyer, John Faraday, told Jim. “Didn’t leave all that much. Seventy-three-thousand, six-hundred-twenty-two-dollars, and fifteen cents was the exact amount of cash left to Jim, along with a modest home and all the furnishings, his pickup truck with the damaged door, and a farm dog that hadn’t been fed since Doc passed. The dog didn’t care much for Jim, and Jim didn’t care much for it. Truth be told, Jim wasn’t much of an animal person. And now? “I got to find another vet,” Jim sighed, shaking his head while signing on every line in the documents Faraday showed him.

“Last one,” Faraday said, flipping to the last page. He pointed to the line, and tears filled Jim’s eyes. Not once did Jim cry at a single funeral. Not once when he got hurt did he cry. Not even when Doc almost killed him did Jim shed a tear. But now, here in the attorney’s office, he sat, bawling like a baby. The tears came fast and hard, like the Iowa rains. Faraday, unsure what to do, walked out of the office as quietly as he could, letting Jim get it out of his system, pretending it didn’t happen.