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Reid learned the difference between a grocery store and the emergency room that day.

You didn't worry about finding a good parking spot when there was an emergency.

Reid swung that Mustang into an awkward stop on the edge of the drive where the ambulances pulled up, and bailed out of the car just a few minutes behind Hector and Chris. He had to lock up the shop, a haphazard process that day even though he knew that Lucy and Vance were in good hands. Vance was more or less conscious by the time the ambulances had arrived, but Lucy had stopped breathing. She'd died in his arms. Or in the car, he wasn't too sure, but if there was one thing that he was sure of, it's that he wasn't going to give up on the little ember of hope that burned inside him, smoldering in his soul and propelling him towards the emergency room door.

"Chris! Hector!" He shouted. The named individuals, standing near the vending machines in the waiting area turned to see the heeler, dashing towards them in a full sprint and skidding comically to a stop. Reid could tell from the looks on their faces that the news was not good. He huffed and puffed, adrenaline surging, his hands on his knees.

"What's...what's the latest?"

Hector took a deep breath, "We haven't heard anything on Lucy. They said that Vance has a pretty good shot at pulling through though."

"He's fucked up, man." Chris sighed, "He's got one broken arm and the other's dislocated at the shoulder, broken collarbone, three broken ribs, one of which punctured his lung, compound fracture in his left femur, minor concussion-"

"Yeah, okay, I get it." Reid huffed, looking as though he were about to be sick. Hector guided him to a nearby chair where he sat down.

"You're the next of kin for Lucy, the hospital knows that, but I don't think the news is gonna be good, brother." Hector said softly, taking a seat next to the bereaved heeler. Reid nodded in resignation and succumbed once again to crying, his thumb and forefinger pressed tightly into the corners of his eyes.

"Oh my God." He croaked, unabashedly sobbing there in the seat while Hector tried to console him with an arm around his shoulders.

She never knew.

She never would.

"Travis?" Someone said, and Reid looked up to see a doctor standing there, looking around at an audience of the sick, injured, bereaved, and worried. "Reid Travis?" The heeler composed himself enough that he might stand and approach the doctor, and when he finally did, his eyes met those of the other man's, reading an expression of guilt and sorrow that could be mistaken for nothing other than a verdict of the worst kind.

"You're the next of kin for Lucy Sanchez, correct? As I understand it..." He looked at his clipboard, "You're her employer?"

"Yes, but I'm also her father. Her...biological father." Reid said, and the look on the doctor's face changed.

"I see." He said slowly and quietly, "Mr. Travis, are you aware of what's going on? Do you know what happened?"

"Yes. I was there."

"Yes, well, I'm afraid there's no easy way to say this, but Lucy died. She was dead on arrival, Mr. Travis, there was nothing that we could have done, her injuries were just too severe."

Hector and Chris started heading over the moment that it looked like Reid was going to collapse where he stood. The heeler buried his face in his hand and wept for a few moments, eventually choking out a question, the answer to which he needed to know.

"Did...did she suffer at all?"

The doctor seemed to ponder for a moment, "I don't think so. Given the extreme nature of the trauma, it's likely that she didn't suffer at all. Generally, people who sustain injuries like these pass with minimal if any suffering. I'm so sorry."

The doctor had come armed with a grief counselor standing just behind him, a portly, short woman who attempted to offer her services to Reid, but the cattle dog was having none of it. He was led away by Hector and Chris, sobbing and wailing pitifully while they sat him in the nearest available seat. It would be six hours before he moved from it. Six hours of grieving over the loss of a daughter who never knew who he was. Six hours of dead, motionless silence.

***

"We're back with live coverage of the natural gas pipeline explosion this morning at popular Los Angeles tuner shop Doghouse Performance Engineering, Mia, how is it looking from up there?"

_ _

_ "Hi Diane, the Los Angeles Fire Department is currently trying to put out the flames on the property. The gas line has been shut off to avoid feeding the flames any further, and we've just received word of the victims of this incident, one of whom has died from her injuries."_

_ _

_ _ A bird's eye view of the desecrated landscape was being shown on TV, the arcs of fire hoses streaming into the smoking crater that once was a part of the Doghouse Performance Engineering track. The ruined, smoking husks of two vehicles could still be seen, one white, one black. Dallas O'Dell's ears pricked at the broadcast, and he rushed back into the living room, grabbed the remote, and turned up the volume.

"Nineteen year-old Lucy Sanchez of Los Angeles..."

_ _

_ _ The cougar went pale beneath his fur.

"Thirty year-old Vance Gillis, also an employee at the tuner shop was badly injured from the explosion, but is listed as being in stable condition and is expected to make a full recovery."

_ _

_ _ Dallas silently turned off the TV and slowly took a seat in his chair, ignoring his wife's insistence that he turn it back on. He sat unmoving, silent, and brooding for several minutes. Outside, kids played in the trailer park. Mrs. O'Dell scrubbed dishes in the sink. Finally, the old cougar picked up the phone and called none other than Wayne himself.

"Hello?"

"Wayne. You get out of there alive?"

"Shit, barely. I'm a little rusty. I think I wired it a little too hot. Damn near blew half the county to kingdom come. You saw that shit on the news?"

"Yeah. Come to my place. I've got your money."

"Right on, I'll be there in half an hour."

Dallas walked into his bedroom, where he spent the next thirty minutes cleaning his prized Colt Single Action Army revolver, nickel plated, with ivory grips and chambered for the venerable .45 Colt caliber. Taking a seat on the bed, he pulled out a drawer and produced a leather satchel, out of which he pulled his gun. Dallas proceeded to clean every nook and cranny of the pistol, unsatisfied until every bit of the nickel finish shined as it did the day that it left the factory. He rotated the cylinder smoothly in the frame, listening to each soft click of the stop while he inserted one shell after another into the chambers, intentionally leaving one empty under the hammer, just as they did in days of old. He shut the loading gate on the revolver just as the one at the edge of his front lawn was opened. A quick peek through the window confirmed that Wayne was headed up the front walk.

Dallas met him at the door. Gun at his side, he walked into the living room, pulled the screen door open, cocked the hammer on his revolver and calmly shot Wayne square between the eyes at point-blank range. Death took the old codger with a comical expression, the instantaneous look of shock gripping his features as his head snapped back sharply on his puny neck, his trucker hat tumbling off from between his ears. It was like pulling the plug out of an electrical socket. Wayne keeled over backwards off the front stoop of Dallas' trailer and landed on the gravel path with a heavy thud, the echo of the shot dying out in the dirty, trailer park air. No one blinked an eye, or even looked. People fired guns around the trailer park all the time. The cougar tucked the gun into his belt and ambled down the steps, then opened the storage space underneath and grabbed a shovel. He returned to the trailer some thirty minutes later, the pads of his hands blistered from the shovel's handle, his clothes dirty from the shallow grave he'd dug about half a mile deep into the woods behind the trailer park where he lived. Wayne was a loner, a drifter - no one would miss him. Throwing the shovel into the storage bin below the front steps, the cougar entered his home and looked steely-eyed at his family.

"What just happened..." He met their stares, "...didn't just happen. Are we clear on that?"

Nods all around. Dallas' face softened. He loped slowly over to his chair and sank into it, slouched and downtrodden.

"Nineteen year old girl." He mused quietly. "Bubba-Dean, get me a beer."

"Sure, Dad." Bubba-Dean wasn't his real name. It was just Dean. He was John's older brother, and baby John couldn't pronounce 'brother', so he was 'bubba'. They just stuck with it. Dallas was just about to have a sip when the phone rang. He knew who it was going to be before he even picked it up.

"ello

'lo, Paul." He muttered into his beer.

"Dallas. I gotta hand it to you; you really upped the ante on this one."

"You think I'm proud of this? Do you, Paul?" The cougar spat, standing up and upsetting the TV tray where the phone sat, "An innocent teenage girl lost her life because of all this! There ain't nothin' worth that!"

He sat back down. The line was silent, "You know what, Paul? Let's just call it quits right now. I don't mind killin' motherfuckers that need killin'. But innocent people are dying and that's just not right in my book."

"I'm surprised you found your moral compass. Where was it, in one of your wife's fat folds?" Paul laughed his wheezing, gritty laugh and Dallas frowned.

"I found the one you lost." He uttered quietly, hands trembling.

"Yeah, well, I don't miss it. I don't miss anything." Paul growled his last sentence sourly, voice dripping with hate. The fur on the back of Dallas' neck stood up. There was the whizz of a bullet, the tinkle of glass shattering, and the beer bottle on the end table exploded, spraying beer and shards of glass all over the cougar, who recoiled where he sat and immediately dove to the floor.

"Ever." Paul hissed. The line clicked and went dead.

"Dad? What was that?"

"Dean! Get down!" Dallas shouted. Dean slowly sank to the floor and got on his belly, his hands clasped over the top of his head, his eyes darting around the room. It was quiet for several seconds before the cougar gathered the nerve to speak again.

"Dean, go into the bedroom and get the shotgun. You stay here, and keep the window shades shut, you hear? Anyone tries to come through that door that doesn't identify themselves, you let 'em have it with both barrels!"

Once Dean understood the plan, Dallas got up and broke into a run, grabbed his truck keys and bolted out the door. A sonic _crack_broke out in the daylight air and the _thunk_of a bullet penetrating the aluminum body of the old truck rang out in the cougar's ears. Dallas jumped into the driver's seat and jammed the truck down into gear, then tore off out of the trailer park for parts unknown. Dean would sit vigilantly in the house armed with his twelve-gauge coach gun, but Paul was already long gone.

***

"You need to eat, brother." Reid was a lot of things; tired, upset, shaken - hungry was not one of them. He hadn't even spoken in hours. Nevertheless, Hector pushed the paper fast-food bag on the heeler, insisting that he take and eat the contents of it, lest he wind up in a hospital bed just like Vance. Speaking of whom, the pit bull was resting quietly in a hospital bed, in a ward somewhere in the building while Hoyt and Darla sat at his bedside with baby Kaitlin.

"Visiting hours are almost over, dude. Vance is awake, if you want to go see him." Chris jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Reid nodded. With the help of his friends, he stood, and shrugged them off as soon as he was on his feet. He looked like a zombie on drugs. His eyes were bagged and bloodshot, his clothes were wrinkled, and his face was devoid of expression, the fur on his cheeks matted from tears.

Ahead of him on the right, the door was slightly ajar, and the room appeared to be dark save for the light from the setting sun seeping in through the window. Alone and unsupported, Reid pushed the door open and cast his eyes onto the pit bull, heavily bandaged and looking terrible.

"Reid. Hey." He whispered.

"Lucy died." The heeler croaked out, his voice ragged and his gaze unmoving. Vance turned his head back so that he was facing the ceiling and closed his eyes, his jaw quivering while glistening tears rolled down his face. It was all too much for the heeler, seeing him cry, and as much as he'd believed that he had cried every tear he'd had, he found himself inconsolable once again, collapsing at the fellow dog's bedside. Reid's hand snaked through the rails of the bed, and slipped into Vance's, gripping it and feeling the plastic hospital bracelet around his wrist.

"Don't leave me, Vance. Don't leave me too."

"I'll be fine." He whispered, hot tears dotting the pillowcase, "I'm hurt pretty bad, but I'll be okay."

"You promise?" Reid asked with all the innocence of a child, "I'm sorry about what I said."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't think that we could be together. I wasn't thinking. You gave yourself to me that night, you were vulnerable, and I was too, and I felt awful because I felt like I took advantage of you."

"No..." Vance whispered back. "I knew what I was getting myself into. I was thinking clear. Maybe it was a mistake. Let's not let that get in the way of our friendship."

Reid rested his head against the cool plastic of the bedrail, his hand still curled into Vance's warm fingers.

"No. It wasn't a mistake. I think it was supposed to happen. I'd be lying if I said the thought had never crossed my mind in all the years we've known each other."

"So would I." The pit bull smiled a pained smile and squeezed the heeler's hand. Reid was quiet for several moments before he continued. His head hurt from all the crying, and he was feeling a little nauseous. He couldn't save Lucy, but he was going to try and save what he had with Vance.

"Paul says everything happens for a reason. I can't think of any reason as to why this might have happened, I...I don't know if it was just a freak accident, or if it was-"

"It was meant for me." Vance said. Reid looked up. "It was a hit. They were trying to kill me, just like you said they would."

"You don't know that..."

"I heard they found wires running from the blast site halfway across the property along the length of the pipeline. Somebody rigged the track to blow."

Reid furrowed his brow in thought, and his eyes sparked with horrific realization, "Oh my God. The gas man."

"Huh?"

"There was a guy from the gas company that came to check out the pipeline, I let him in...I let him in twice! I let him in earlier today just before the explosion, oh my God!" Reid stood up and began pacing around the room, both hands on his head.

"Don't blame yourself, you didn't know." Vance said dismissively.

"I should have asked for more credentials, or an I.D. or something!"

"Reid, if he could fake that work truck, he could sure as hell fake an I.D. or some kind of badge. Look, there's no way you could have known, so don't go blaming yourself. This is hard enough on me as it is." Reid slumped into a chair and scooted it up to the pit bull, gripping the bedrails with both hands and resting his forehead on the top of it. Vance lifted a hand and placed it on the heeler's head, running his fingers through his thinning hair.

"Reid." He whispered.

Silence.

"Reid, look at me."

It took a moment, but eventually, the cattle dog lifted his head, and looked with his tired, bloodshot eyes at his best friend. Vance's head was bandaged, and the arm that wasn't in a sling had an IV drip inserted.

"We're gonna make it through this. Together. Okay?"

Reid nodded tearfully.

"Okay."

"I need..." Vance choked a little, "...I'm gonna be there for you. And I need to know that you're going to be there, because you're the support that I need. I can't do it without you, and if you're not holding it together, then I'm definitely fucked." He smiled weakly. So did Reid. The nurse came in and informed them that visiting hours were over. Vance was all too ready to rest, and the morphine he'd been given was taking effect.

"I'm so tired." He said, almost too quiet to be heard.

"Then rest. I won't be far." Reid whispered, standing up. Leaning over the bedrail, he lowered himself until their muzzles touched, and they kissed, slowly, quietly, and with the kind of beautiful banality of a couple who had kissed thousands of times.

"I love you." Vance whispered.

"Love you too." Reid ran a hand through the dark, almost-black hair on the pit bull's head and turned to walk out of the room, feeling no better about the whole situation, but just a tiny bit better about his own.

***

Dear Clients of Doghouse Performance Engineering,

_ _

_ It is with our deepest regrets that we inform you that one of our own, Lucy Sanchez, passed away Monday morning. She will be deeply missed by all who knew and loved her._

_ _

_ We will be closed for the remainder of this week. We will re-open next Monday at 9:00 AM. We thank you for your understanding during this difficult time._

_ _

_ Drive safe,_

_ _

_ Reid Travis_

_ President_

_ Doghouse Performance Engineering_

_ _

_ _ The lights were off. The doors were closed and locked. The entire garage was quiet, but it may have been because Reid was the only one there. He closed the laptop without a word and stood up, dressed in a plain black suit. He stopped at the door, his hand hovering over the light switch for a moment before he plunged the room into darkness.

Doghouse's lobby was dimly lit by the late morning sunlight pouring in through the windows. A large, empty space off to the left where the Nova used to sit glared at the pro-shop, and Reid turned around to face the double doors leading into the bays. He quietly made his way through them and flipped on the lights, the halogen bulbs casting dim light over the shop as they hummed to life. Off to the right, alone on a stand, sat a 1969 Super Sport Chevelle, painted a sickly seafoam green color - Lucy's favorite. Lucy's car. Reid walked slowly over to it and opened the door, bits of the broken glass from the shattered windows clicking across the polished concrete floor as they fell.

He sighed and brushed some of the bits of glass from off of the seat and sat down with a groan. Shaky hands found the steering wheel, and he caressed the wooden circle where Lucy's hands once rested, keeping the car true when she was burning up the quarter mile. He rested his hand on the four-speed Hurst shift knob where her hand once sat, pushing and pulling it into one gear from the next. Breathing deep, he stared straight ahead through the nonexistent windshield, mashed in the clutch, and pulled the shifter down into second, easing back onto the accelerator and letting the clutch out. In his mind, he was shooting down the Pacific Coast Highway, Lucy in the passenger seat, her hair blowing in the wind. He slammed the clutch in again, ramped it up into third, and that was when the tears began to fall. Hands pressed tightly together at the top of the wheel, Reid leaned forward onto them, sobbing erratically, his form quivering in the seat while he let loose with everything he had, salty tears rolling down his cheeks and muzzle to drip onto his suit pants.

The viewing was in an hour. He could make it in time if he left immediately, but he didn't want to get out of the car. He swore he could still smell her inside of it. Once he'd exhausted his tear supply for the moment, he sighed, rubbed his eyes, and leaned back in the seat. It was several minutes before he collected himself enough to get out of the car, and when he did, he shut the door gently.

"I wondered what happened to that old car."

Reid nearly jumped out of his skin and fur altogether, and he wheeled about in fright to face the last person he expected to see.

Josie was standing just inside the double doors.

"Josie."

"Hi, Reid."

Reid approached her slowly, and then it was Josie's turn to cry. Once in range, they threw their arms around one another and the middle-aged wolf sobbed into her ex-husband's neck. He stared sadly through the doors while he rubbed her back, lost for words entirely.

"Our baby, our little girl..." She wailed, her whole frame quaking in the heeler's embrace.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered. Josie just shook her head, and Reid wasn't sure how to take it. So he let her cry. He let her dampen the shoulder of his nice suit jacket with her tears. He would have allowed her to take a wrench from the tool chest nearby and break his knees with it if she were so inclined.

Jeff's funeral had been gifted with weather appropriate for the mood, as had Aiden's. Lucy's viewing, however, was given a cloudless, sunny day, seventy-five degrees and not a drop of moisture in the air. They couldn't have asked for more ill-fitting weather for such an unfortunate occasion. Reid sat buckled into his racing harness as he drove Josie to the funeral hall. Like Reid, she was showing her age, years of stress and worry turning much of her hair prematurely gray. She brushed a strand behind her cheek before she spoke, following a long silence.

"I don't want you blaming yourself." Josie said following a silence of nearly five minutes. Reid wasn't sure how to answer. How could I not? He thought to himself.

"We both screwed up." She whispered, "If I had known about Brody...I never would have allowed him within ten feet of Lucy. I never would have had children with him. I would have kicked his ass to the curb, and I'd have killed him if I ever saw him put his hands on her." Her voice quivered.

"You knew?"

"Only after she left." Josie admitted poignantly.

"God, if only I had just stayed-"

"Don't..." Josie shook her graying head, "...just, don't go there. We both know that would never have worked out. The two of us always fighting, it would have been a toxic environment for Lucy to grow up in, you know that."

"Better than what she had with Brody Callison."

"Life is full of risks. I guess some just don't work out that well." Josie said quietly.

"I guess not."

***

Dallas' truck bumbled shakily over the numerous potholes in the dirt parking lot of Rotgut Rob's, sliding to a stop in the mud just outside the door. He jumped out in a hurry, looking over his shoulder and nearly tripping on his way up the steps. Once inside, he headed right for the old Alsatian behind the counter.

"Rob. Rob!"

"Enh?"

"I need you to call the police." He whispered lowly, leaning across the bar, "It's Paul! Paul's the sniper, and he's after me! Get the cops here!"

"And you came here?" Rob shrank a little, and the fur on the back of his neck stood up the moment the bell on the front door rang. Paul burst into the bar, rifle in hand, and Rob reached for the old Remington pump shotgun he kept behind the counter for such problem guests as those who came in armed to the teeth. But Paul was quicker, and he leveled the rifle at the old dog, who shrank in his sights. Rob removed his firing hand from the weapon and brought both of his arms out wide in surrender. Dallas, however, was not one to give up easily. Paul swung around to take down Dallas, but a .45 caliber hunk of lead flew past his head and the bear jerked the trigger, pulling the rifle off course as he did so and missing the cougar entirely. Moving and shooting at the same time, Paul pumped the trigger on the rifle, sending rounds in Dallas' direction while the cougar returned fire with the last three shots that he had. Pandemonium ensued, and most everyone in the bar, including Rob, ran for the exits. Paul took cover behind the end of the bar and ripped the empty magazine out of his weapon, replacing it with a fresh one and giving himself twenty rounds on tap.

"You're a dead man, Dallas!" Paul shouted over the bar to the cougar, who was busy pressing new rounds into the cylinder of his revolver with shaking hands. Paul stood up with a groan and began firing indiscriminately at any of the Bitten who remained inside. Some of them attempted to return fire with their own weapons, but they fired blindly, frenetically trying to plug the old bear by chance alone.

"We'll see who's dead by the end of this!" Dallas shouted back, cocking the hammer on his freshly-loaded armament. Paul's footsteps could be heard, and Dallas made a Hail Mary pass in jumping out from behind the end of the bar, where he made what may have been the luckiest shot of his life.

Paul whipped hard to one side as the lead projectile skimmed his face, grazing along his left cheek deep enough to draw serious blood. Losing his footing, he fell to the dusty, wooden floorboards, his rifle clattering to the ground beside him. By the time he'd gotten up, Dallas was long gone, as was everyone else who was still able to walk. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and hobbled around behind the bar, where he leaned on it and looked out at the haunt he once called his favorite. Then, he grabbed a bottle of liquor and chucked it across the bar, watching it shatter against the wall, showering the dead and the dying with vodka. Gin was next. Then bourbon. The dirty, wooden floor was a muddy sea of wasted alcohol and broken glass by the time the bear was done, capping off his little soiree with a couple of bottles which he simply inverted, pouring their contents onto the pool tables. Then, he tossed them away and looked around at the carnage.

"Goodbye fellas. It's been real." Paul mused at the front door, rifle in hand. He took out his old Bitten MC custom Zippo lighter and flicked it open, spinning the flint to light it, and then tossed it to the floor, igniting the alcohol which spread like wildfire throughout the bar. Within minutes, the entire building was ablaze, a funeral pyre in his truck's rear view mirror for the rough and rowdy past that the bear never came to terms with. At least until then.

***

Lucy was laid to rest as she had been in life. Reid was not about to have her put in some frilly burial dress, lest he be haunted for the rest of his waking days. No, Lucy had been dressed in skinny jeans, her hair tied back into a neat ponytail displayed cutely over her gently sloping shoulder, and a Doghouse Performance Engineering work shirt, replete with her name embroidered in script over the pocket. It was a fitting image, as heartbreaking as it was, but perhaps the most heartbreaking thing of all was the sight in front of the casket. Rigo was quite literally floored by the experience. Dressed in a suit, he was down on his hands and knees in front of the decedent, his whole body quivering as though he were naked in a snowstorm. A co-worker and friend from the hospital attempted to console him with a gentle hand on his back, but it didn't seem to be helping much. It brought forth a new wave of tears from the heeler, and he dissolved into a sobbing mess once more, sinking to one knee at the edge of one of the pews.

"I've been to too damn many of these things..." He muttered, pressing his fingers into his eyes while people pretended not to watch. Up front, Rigo was doing enough crying for everyone present.

"I'll say." Vance said, and Reid turned to see him sitting there, seated in a wheelchair, bandaged up from head to toe. He passed a box of tissues to the heeler, who graciously accepted and dabbed at his eyes. "First Jeff, then Aiden, Frank, and now Lucy...it's been a hell of a year."

"Yes, it has been." Reid whispered. "A hell of a year."

"Have you...?" Vance stopped short, motioning with his muzzle in the direction of the casket at the front of the funeral chapel. A lady stepped awkwardly around the bereaved Rigo on her way to the edge of the ornate, oak box with polished brass fittings.

"No. I haven't gotten any closer than this." Reid admitted, his hand resting on the back of the pew furthest back from where his daughter lay in silent repose.

"It's hard, I know." The pit bull said, casting a glance over to Hoyt, who was gently rocking a sleeping Kaitlin. He sighed, "I should have been in that Galaxie when it blew."

Reid stayed silent, hoping silence didn't suggest that he agreed with the statement; he just wondered if Paul were there, if he would have had something to say about it.

"I could just as easily say the same thing." Reid said plaintively, "Why her and not me? Maybe we're not meant to know why something happens until later."

Vance just nodded. He wasn't really in the mood for philosophical debate, so he just put his arm around the heeler and pulled him a little closer, as close as they could get given the obstruction of the wheelchair between them.

"You know, we're not meant to have to face things like this alone." He said, looking over at Rigo, who was now curled up in the fetal position on the floor in front of Lucy, sobbing quietly into the crook of his elbow, "When you're ready to say goodbye, don't go alone. I'll go with you. I promise."

"I've had so many second chances in my life." Reid sobbed, "I just wanted to have a second chance to be a father."

"Maybe you still can."

Reid looked over at Vance, who was gazing across the center aisle to Hoyt, who was gently rocking Kaitlin in his arms.

"I can't do it alone." He said, and turned back to face Reid. "If we're really going to be together...if we're going to do this, then...let's do this for real."

"Hey, brother. How you holding up?" Xavier said from behind, and Reid and Vance both turned around to see the little brother standing there behind the pew in full dress blues, Erin by his side, watching them with compassion.

"All right, I guess."

"Mom's here, you know." Xavier placed a firm hand on Reid's shoulder, "You ought to go and give her a hug. She's pretty upset about Lucy, too."

"I'll do that."

"Oh, by the way, did you get my voicemail?"

"I didn't, no. I haven't been keeping up with my phone as well as I should be, I'm sorry about that."

"No worries, I uh," Xavier scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, "I left it for you before..." He looked over towards the casket, "before I found out, otherwise I wouldn't have told you until later, but we're getting married."

Reid looked up, and for the first time since that fateful race, his muzzle spread into a weak grin. "That's wonderful. I could use some good news right about now."

"I want you to be there. I need a best man."

"I'll be there. I'll do it."

"I just didn't want to, y'know, rub it in your face since things didn't work out...you know, between..." He gestured back and forth between his fiancée and older brother. Erin bopped him on the shoulder, and Reid smiled a little more, looking down at the pew.

"It's all right."

Reid sighed, and turned his head to look down the aisle of the funeral chapel towards the casket, lit softly by the track lighting in the ceiling. Rigo was being helped up by whom Reid assumed were the wolf's parents, and the doting mother was dabbing her son's eyes with a lipstick-stained handkerchief. He squeezed Vance's hand and gave a little nod of his head.

"I'm ready."

Flanked by Vance and Xavier, Reid walked slowly down the center of the aisle, finding himself getting emotional as the thought of one day walking Lucy down the aisle at her wedding permeated his imagination with a picture rife with lavender, lace, and rose petals. Vance was too low in the wheelchair to cry on, and Reid wouldn't dare dream of soiling Xavier's dress blues with his tears, so when they reached the casket, he forced himself to be strong.

Reid stared down at his daughter and pretended as though he could see her chest rising and falling beneath that navy blue work shirt as she slept peacefully. He kept waiting for her to move, to yawn, to stretch, to wake up and sit up in that infernal box and jump into his arms. Perhaps the worst of all, he thought, was that she never knew the truth.

He vowed that from that day forward, no longer would he hold himself back from his loved ones. No longer would he withhold the truth from them. No longer would he be reserved, shy, or hesitant to divulge what was true, for life was too fragile and too short a thing to keep one's heart under lock and key. He looked down at Vance, who was pressing a tissue into his eyes.

Leaning down, Reid placed a hand over Lucy's, which clasped a pair of Vic Firth brand drum sticks. He bent down and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

"Goodbye, sweetheart."

***

Paul shot down the 111 towards Calexico at ninety miles an hour, his old heart racing as fast as his pickup truck's engine was. Behind him, red and blue lights flashed along with the orders to pull over coming from the loudspeaker of the cruiser at the head of the pack.

The U.S.-Mexico border was coming into view, and Mexicali was just beyond that. Traffic was growing more and more dense, and the police were gaining on him with each passing second. Seeing his opportunity, Paul veered off the road and onto the earth, bumping wildly over rocky terrain as he sped like a demon for old Mexico. Dallas had gotten away, but as long as Paul had breath in his lungs, he wasn't going to stand for it. He figured he'd lay low in Mexico for a little while, and Dallas would grow complacent, making him an easy target.

A small river ended the journey for the pickup, so with the police still hot on his tail and the Border Patrol even closer, the old bear frantically bailed from the truck, rifle in hand as he ran in his odd, limping way for the border.

"STOP! YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!"

Paul whipped about, leveled his rifle at the officers and unleashed a volley of gunfire from the hip in their general direction, most of the rounds missing their targets, a few lucky shots taking out a radiator and a side mirror. The bolt locked to the rear. Paul turned again and made a run for it, splashing into the river up to his knees when the return fire rang out in the dry desert air.

Rounds zipped through Paul like a blowtorch through butter, and he dropped the rifle into the abysmal water, never to be seen again. A few more rounds found their target in the bear, and Paul pitched forward, falling face-first unceremoniously into the murky water, which parted around him in a grandiose splash. Face-down in the water, Paul took his last breath in the form of a drink, and as the life wept from the bullet holes in his wilted body, he saw the faces of the ones he loved calling him home.

***

The funeral enjoyed even lovelier weather than the wake. Not a cloud was in the sky, and the temperature remained at a consistent seventy degrees, making it easy on the men in their black suits and neckties. One such man was Rigo Cabrera, dressed sharply in a plain black, two-button, single breasted suit with a dark necktie. While the wolf would normally be the picture of debonair, he wore his withered soul on his sleeve. It was obvious that behind those eyes, there was nothing left. Still, seeing Rigo in that suit forced even the bereaved heeler to remind himself that he was no longer a single man.

"I suppose you're off the hook now." Rigo said quietly, approaching Reid on the lawn of the funeral home.

"No." He breathed. "I never will be. It's something that I'm going to have to live with for the rest of my life, but I guess I can take some solace in the fact that it's probably the worst thing I'll ever do."

The wolf just nodded, "What do you want me to do with the car?"

"Which one?"

"That crazy BMW you guys built with the big V8 in it. It's just sitting in my garage at home."

Reid actually laughed. He had to admit, it felt good. "Oh, that thing? You know, I'd forgotten all about it. Why don't you keep it?"

"Keep it?"

"Yeah. You drove it at all?"

"Little bit." The wolf admitted.

"It's pretty fun, right?"

"That thing is just stupid." Rigo fought back a grin, and eventually gave up; reminiscing about the times when he and Lucy had taken that car out and just dogged the snot out of it together.

"Hang on to it. Have fun with it, it's yours."

"Thanks."

Side by side, they glanced in the direction of the canopy, where people were beginning to take their seats for the closing of the funeral.

"You know, whether she knew you were her father or not, I think she was happy." Rigo said. "She was happy doing what she loved."

"I think so too." Reid replied, "I'm glad she had you."

Rigo nodded, "Same here, Reid. Same here." The two men shook hands, and headed for the plot.

Reid sat in the front row beneath the sunshade canopy that was set up in front of the flower adorned oak casket, watching while the preacher delivered a short homily about Heaven and the hereafter. Reid's estranged wife sat on his left, his boyfriend on the right. He leaned to the left.

"Do you think this might not have happened if we'd stayed together?"

"Who knows?" Josie answered, clutching her purse in her lap, her legs crossed.

"I mean, if I had never left, maybe all of this wouldn't have happened." He whispered, "Maybe we could have worked things out. Maybe we'd still be together today, and Lucy would have been a well-adjusted, happy kid."

"What makes you think she wasn't?" Josie replied with a sideways glance.

"You mean aside from the obvious?"

"Lucy and I kept in touch when she was in California." She began, "You wouldn't believe how happy she was out here. Playing in her band. Working in your shop. Dating that wolf. Everything that happened to her is what led her here. She was smart enough to know that." She finished, turning back to face her daughter's casket.

Reid wet his lips, "I just...I wish I had told her."

"Told her what?"

"That I was her father."

"Oh, she knew." Josie said with her tone aloof and reserved, suggesting Reid should have already known. He turned to look wide-eyed at her in disbelief.

"What do you mean she knew?" He hissed, his whispering voice hot and fast while they prepared to lower Lucy into her final resting place.

"I told her! The moment she mentioned to me on the phone that she'd gone to work at the most prestigious auto-tuning shop in the country, I knew right away what was going on. I asked her for your name..."

"Reid Travis." Lucy answered, and she furrowed her brow when her mother began to cackle with laughter on the other end of the line."What, what's so funny?"

_ _

_ "Okay, Lucy, just so we're clear, your boss is a cattle dog, right? Red heeler?"_

_ _

_ "Yeah?"_

_ _

_ "All right, Lucy, you might want to sit down for this. You sitting? Okay. Reid is your father, honey."_

_ _

_ "What?"_

_ _

_ "Yep. He's your biological father. Reid and I split up shortly after you were born, and he headed out for California, went to work at a place called Doghouse Performance Engineering. Wow, what a coincidence! Is he still a greasy-looking fucker? I guess he'd be an_ old greasy-looking fucker, now."

_ _

_ "Mom! He's really nice!"_

_ _

_ "Well, I'm glad one of us thinks so."_

_ _

_ "Mom, I don't even...I can't...just...what? Reid is my Dad?"_

_ _

_ "Yep. Don't hold it against him. Our split was more or less a mutual decision. It's just how it goes, sometimes. You'll understand when you're older."_

"Really threw her for a loop." Josie grinned sardonically. Reid turned back to front.

"Do you think she believed you?" He asked quietly. Josie scoffed.

"Of course. She knew I wouldn't lie to her. Especially not about something as heavy as that."

Reid nodded, "Well. Thanks for not throwing me under the bus for packing up and leaving like I did. It was a shitty thing to do, and I'm sorry."

"I didn't do it for you." She said. Reid sighed and turned back to face the casket as it was lowered into the ground.

"No, I suppose you didn't."

***

Dallas pulled his truck to a stop just outside his trailer in the usual, grassless spot where he parked the old rust bucket. He limped up the steps to his front door - he'd twisted his ankle getting out of Rotgut Rob's in due haste. Ambling up the steps, he knocked three times on the door; the exact number of knocks he'd told Dean he would.

Dean pulled open the door, and Dallas opened the screen, walking slowly in and heading for his easy chair without so much as a word. The old recliner groaned under his weight as he sat, pulling his hand away slightly to look at the wound that he'd sustained at the bar. He hadn't been the only one who'd gotten a lucky shot off.

"Pop, you're hit..." Dean uttered, looking at the frightening wound.

"I'm all right."

Sirens could be heard in the distance.

"You want a beer?" Dean asked, figuring it was the only question he could ask that would be well-received by the old cougar, who was looking a little pale.

"Yeah. A beer'd be nice."

Dean nodded and stepped into the kitchen to retrieve it. Dallas kicked his feet up in the chair and leaned back, looking up at where the wall met the water-stained ceiling.

All for what? He thought to himself for a fleeting moment, and then drifted off to sleep.