Bear Crossings

The padel court echoed with the hollow thwack of rubber against glass, a sound that had become the metronome of David's unraveling life. He played every Tuesday with Marcus from Mergers & Acquisitions, sweating through shirts that cost more than his first car, desperate for the partnership that would finally prove he'd made it.

"You're running on fumes, man," Marcus said, as David bent double, hands on knees.

David wasn't running from anything. Except he was.

The divorce papers sat in his glove compartment, signed and sealed. Elena had taken the dog—Barnaby, the golden retriever they'd adopted when they still believed in forevers. He'd seen them walking past his building that morning, her hand buried in the dog's ruff, both of them looking lighter without him.

That night, he drove north until the city's glow faded. He hiked until his legs burned, until the trail dissolved into wilderness. And there, in a meadow dusted with early snow, he found himself ten yards from a black bear.

The bear raised its head, chewing something green and stubborn. Wild spinach, David realized, strangely calm. It kept eating.

He should have been terrified. Instead, he felt envious. The bear was simply being a bear—no expectations, no promotions to chase, no marriages to fail. Just survival and sustenance, eating spinach in the snow.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Marcus. About tomorrow's game.

David watched the bear finish its meal and amble away, heavy-footed and unburdened. He let the phone ring until it stopped, then turned it off. There were worse things than being alone in the woods. There was being alone while pretending you weren't.

He sat down in the snow and waited for something to feel real again.