Bottom of the Ninth

Gary stood behind the backstop, the chain-link cutting into his palms as he watched his son Toby bat. The baseball diamond was pristine, emerald grass striped like a delicious cake, but Gary's stomach churned. He'd missed too many games lately. The divorce had scattered his schedule like confetti.

"Come on, Toby!" he yelled, though his voice cracked. Toby was twelve now, slipping away.

The fox appeared in right field, a rust-colored ghost materializing from the woods. Gary had been seeing foxes everywhere lately—dead on the highway, trotting through suburban yards, staring at him through restaurant windows. His therapist called it confirmation bias. Gary called it his life turning into a goddamn Aesop's fable.

The fox watched the game with what looked suspiciously like amusement. Its yellow eyes followed the arc of the ball as Toby connected—crack!—and sent it soaring toward the warning track.

"Run!" someone screamed. Toby's sneakers chewed up the baseline, rounding first, then second. The right fielder fumbled. The fox tilted its head.

Toby slid into third, safe. His teammates mobbed him. Gary's chest swelled with something that felt almost like hope.

"He's got your swing," said a woman's voice behind him.

Gary turned. Elena. His ex-wife. She looked tired but lovely, holding their daughter's hand. The cat carrier at her feet held Mittens, the Persian cat Gary had secretly allergic to for seven years.

"He's better than I ever was," Gary said.

"You're coming to dinner on Sunday?" Elena asked, not quite meeting his eyes. "Mittens needs her medication anyway, and...

"And?"

"And I made that thing you like. The chicken." She stepped closer. The fox in right field sat down, attentive. "Maybe we could—I don't know, Gary. Maybe we rushed it. The papers. The apartment."

Gary looked at his son, grinning and filthy at third base. Then at the fox, now grooming its paw like it owned the place. Then at Elena, who'd worn her hair down for the first time in months.

"The cat," he said. "I'm still allergic, El."

"I know." She smiled, devastating and familiar. "But you took Benadryl for seven years. You could take it again."

The umpire shouted "Play ball!" and the fox slipped back into the woods, perhaps satisfied that this particular game would continue another inning. Gary exhaled, his breath visible in the cooling evening air.

"Sunday," he said. "I'll bring the Benadryl."