Dead Reckoning

Marcus sat in his car in the parking garage, the engine idling. He'd been a zombie for six months now—moving through his days at the consulting firm, nodding in meetings, sending emails at 2 AM, his heart rate rarely exceeding sixty beats per minute. His wife Elena had started calling him "the walking dead" two months ago, before she stopped talking to him almost entirely.

The only thing that still made him feel something was swimming. Three times a week, he'd slip into the university pool at 10 PM, when the lap lanes were empty. Tonight, the water was cold enough to shock his system, the chlorine stinging his eyes as he pushed through the water, stroke after stroke, until his muscles burned and his lungs remembered what it meant to be alive.

When he finally dragged himself out of the pool, his phone buzzed on the bench. A text from Elena: "Rufus won't eat. Won't take his vitamin either."

Their dog. The golden retriever puppy they'd gotten five years ago, back when they still believed in forever. Rufus had been Elena's idea, but somehow, he'd become Marcus's shadow. The dog was twelve now, his muzzle graying, his hips stiff. Marcus drove home faster than he should have.

Elena was asleep on the couch when he let himself in, a half-empty wine glass on the coffee table. Marcus found Rufus curled in the corner of the kitchen, whining softly. The dog lifted his head when Marcus approached, tail thumping weakly against the linoleum.

"Hey buddy," Marcus whispered, sinking to the floor. Rufus rested his head in Marcus's lap, those soulful brown eyes searching for something Marcus hadn't been able to give anyone for months. "You're not feeling well either, huh?"

He fished the vitamin tablet from his pocket—something the vet had prescribed for Rufus's joints—and held it out. The dog lapped it from his palm, then sighed, settling heavier against Marcus's chest.

Marcus sat there in the dark kitchen, his wet swim trunks soaking through his shirt, the dog's breathing slowing to match his own. For the first time in half a year, something cracked open inside him. Not happiness, exactly. But something like it. Something that might, with enough practice, become feeling again.

"I'm still here," he whispered to the empty kitchen, to the sleeping dog, to himself. "I'm still here."