Disconnect

The cable dangled from the ceiling like a dead snake, its frayed end mocking me. Coach Miller's voice echoed across the baseball field, shouting something about "hustle" and "dedication," but I was already halfway to the parking lot.

"Marcus!" Jenna caught up with me, her cleats clicking against the pavement. "You're just gonna dip?"

"Practice is basically over anyway," I said, which wasn't true at all—we still had thirty minutes of conditioning. But my grandma was calling, and if I missed another check-in, she'd send the cops again. Last time had been humiliating: three squad cars showing up because I'd lost track of time at Tyler's house playing FIFA.

Jenna rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. "You're running from everything lately."

That stung because it was true. Ever since my mom moved to Denver with her new boyfriend, I'd been dodging—feelings, conversations, anything real. Just surviving on autopilot.

"Whatever."

"Hey," she said, softer this time. "My dad's got this old cat. Won't stop puking on the carpet. He's about to drop it at the shelter. You want it?"

I stared at her. "A cat?"

"Unless you're allergic. Then forget I said anything."

My grandma's apartment didn't allow pets, technically. But she also didn't allow me to skip practice, and here I was. Rules were more like suggestions when she wasn't looking.

"Okay," I heard myself say. "But I can't promise it won't run away."

"Bro." Jenna gave me this look, half judgment, half amusement. "You couldn't keep a pet rock alive."

We ended up at her house, and her dad was just glad to be rid of the beast—a scrawny thing with one ear that refused to stand up. I carried it home in a cardboard box, my palms sweating the whole walk. What was I thinking?

Water leaked through the bottom of the box where the cat had knocked over its bowl. Great. Now I was a pet owner and a mess.

The moment I stepped through Grandma's door, the cat bolted—straight up the curtains, claws shredding the fabric she'd bought on sale last month. I watched, paralyzed, as Grandma emerged from the kitchen, her expression shifting from confusion to that specific I'm-not-mad-I'm-just-disappointed face that somehow hurt worse than yelling.

But then the cat descended, landed in her lap, and started purring like a tiny engine.

"Well," Grandma said, scratching behind its ears. "Aren't you just the messiest thing."

She didn't make me take it back. We named it Chaos, because obviously.

That night, I reconnected the coaxial cable to the TV—something I'd been meaning to do for weeks. Watched bad sitcoms with a warm weight on my chest, everything still hard, but different. Some things, I learned, you can't run from. Sometimes you have to let them catch you.