Electric Currents

Mara stood on the porch, watching the storm roll across the lake. Lightning fractured the sky in brilliant white veins, illuminating the water below—churning, dark, endless. Somewhere in that house behind her, David was probably still asleep, or pretending to be.

Three months of marriage counseling had led them here: this rented cabin, this weekend retreat, this final attempt at something they'd both already stopped believing in. The therapist had called it a reset. Mara called it hospice care for a dying thing.

A sound from the edge of the woods made her turn. A dog—some mix of retriever and something else—stood there, water dripping from its matted coat, watching her with unreadable eyes. It wasn't theirs. They'd never had pets. David was allergic, or maybe just allergic to the responsibility of caring for something that couldn't walk away.

"Come here," she whispered, and the dog approached, cautious but determined.

She knelt in the wet grass and buried her hands in its fur, feeling the warmth beneath the cold rain. Lightning struck closer now, and she counted the seconds—mississippi, mississippi—before thunder shook the porch boards. The dog pressed against her, solid and real and utterly without agenda.

Inside, the bedroom light flicked on. David's silhouette appeared in the window.

The dog growled, a low rumble that vibrated against Mara's chest.

"It's okay," she told it, but her voice caught. Because it wasn't okay. Nothing was okay. She'd stopped loving him gradually, then all at once, like a switch flipping in some distant room. And the worst part was that he knew it. He'd always known it.

She stood up, her knees stiff, and watched the water pulse against the shore. The lake looked different in flashes of lightning—like a living thing, like something that could swallow you whole or carry you somewhere else entirely.

The dog nudged her hand, then turned back toward the woods.

"Go on," she said. "You're free."

It paused once, looking back, before disappearing into the dark.

Mara took a breath, opened the door, and walked inside. David was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. In the harsh yellow light, he looked smaller than she remembered.

"I saw a dog," she said.

He looked up. "What?"

"Outside. There was a dog."

David stared at her for a long moment. Then his face crumpled.

"I know," he said. "I heard it too."

Outside, the rain fell harder, washing everything clean.