The Beneficiary

Sarah stood at the edge of the cracked concrete pool in her father's backyard, the same one where she'd learned to swim twenty-five years ago. The water was green now, stagnant and still. She'd returned to sell the house, put the past behind her again, until the lawyer dropped the bombshell.

Everything had been left to Buster.

The golden retriever mix lifted his head from his bed in the sunroom, thumping his tail at the sound of her voice. He was the only thing in this house that didn't carry layers of resentment.

"You've got to be kidding me," said David, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. He still wore that same patient expression he'd had since they were twelve, when she'd confessed her plan to run away from home. Now he was the estate's executor, her oldest friend, and the one person who knew exactly why she'd never come back.

"Your father was eccentric, Sarah. This isn't that surprising."

"He left half a million dollars to a dog, David. That's not eccentric—that's one final fuck you from beyond the grave."

David's phone buzzed. He checked it, grimaced. "The neighbors are starting a betting pool. How long before you challenge the will, or before Buster dies of natural causes, or whether you'll actually try to take care of him."

Sarah looked at the dog again. Buster was twelve, arthritic, and had been her father's entire world for the past decade. She'd sent birthday cards, called on holidays, made all the appropriate gestures from three thousand miles away. Her father had written back about Buster's achievements, his health, his increasingly expensive vet bills.

She'd thought they were manipulations.

"What happens if I walk away?" she asked.

"Then the state finds a rescue to take him, and the estate pays for his care. But Sarah—" David stepped closer, his voice softening "—that's not really what you're asking."

The pool's water rippled in the wind. She remembered floating here at seventeen, holding onto a float, telling David she wished her parents would just disappear. They'd been sitting right inside, watching through the sliding glass door.

"No," she said. "I guess it's not."

She walked to the sunroom, sank to her knees beside the dog's bed. Buster licked her hand, his coat smelling of old age and unconditional forgiveness. Some inheritances weren't measured in money.

"I'm not challenging the will," she told David. "But I'm not leaving either. Someone needs to make sure he lives out the rest of his life like a king."

David's expression shifted—surprise, then something gentler. "I'll help you sell the house. We'll find a place nearby."

"Together?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

Buster sighed contentedly between them. The betting pool would have to wait.