"I spent your whole life teaching you to win," Richard said slowly. "Business, sports, karate. I paid for the best instructors. I came to the tournaments when I could. I told you never to let anyone push you around."
He shook his head.
"But I was never home. And I never taught you the thing that actually matters. Daniel did that. A man who lives three houses down in a place I used to call the ugliest house on the street."
His voice cracked.
"I'm proud of you, son. Not for the trophies. For tonight. I've never been prouder of you in my life."
Blake looked at his father. Really looked at him. And for the first time, he saw not the powerful businessman, but a tired man who was getting older and was afraid he'd run out of time to fix things.
"It's not too late, Dad," Blake said quietly.
Richard put an arm around his son's shoulders. Awkwardly at first. Then not awkwardly at all.
"No," he said. "I don't think it is."
The storm came in early September.
The weather service had been warning about it for days. A line of severe thunderstorms rolling in from the west, with high winds and the possibility of flash flooding.
Daniel spent the afternoon securing his house. He tied down the trash cans, cleared the gutters, and moved the blue porch chair inside. Then he walked across the street and did the same for Walter, who grumbled that he wasn't helpless but let Daniel do it anyway.
By eight that evening, the wind was howling. Rain lashed sideways against the windows. The lights flickered twice, then went out completely.
Daniel lit candles in the kitchen. Emily sat at the table in her pajamas, hugging her stuffed rabbit, trying to look brave.
"Daddy, where's Biscuit?"
Daniel froze.
Biscuit was Walter's old beagle. He'd been staying with them for the night because Walter's back had been acting up and he couldn't manage the dog during the storm.
Daniel checked the living room. The bedroom. The bathroom.
Then he saw it. The back door, rattling in the wind. The latch hadn't caught properly.
"He got out," Daniel said.