Extra Innings

The stadium lights flickered on as the ninth inning stretched into extras. Elena's hand found mine, her fingers cold despite the July heat. I watched her — really watched her — for the first time in months. The chemotherapy had taken her hair, leaving her scalp smooth and exposed, vulnerable as a newborn's. She'd stopped wearing the wig weeks ago, a defiance that made my chest ache.

"Remember our first game?" she asked, voice raspy from treatments that had become as routine as grocery shopping.

"Baseball," I nodded. "Section 312, bleacher seats. You spilled mustard on my jersey."

She smiled, and it was like watching sunlight break through storm clouds. "You married me anyway."

At home, Barnaby — our morbidly obese cat — was probably shredding the sofa, his revenge for our abandonment. We'd adopted him after the miscarriage, a distraction we'd both clung to. Now he was the only family we had left.

"I can't do another round, David."

The words hung between us, heavy and unbearable. The oncologist had been clear: this experimental protocol was our last, best hope. But the cost — in time, in pain, in whatever dignity she had left — was stealing her away by degrees.

The bear of a man in the row ahead stood up, blocking my view. His jersey strained at the seams as he roared at a called strike. I wanted to scream at him, to shake him until he understood that some things mattered more than balls and strikes.

"Then we don't," I said, turning back to Elena. "We stop. We go to that cabin in Montana. We eat whatever we want. We let Barnaby destroy every piece of furniture we own."

Her eyes filled with tears. "And die?"

"And live," I corrected. "However much time that is."

She leaned into my shoulder, her breath catching. "Extra innings," she whispered.

"Extra innings," I agreed.

The crowd erupted as someone hit a home run, but I didn't look. Some games you don't have to win — you just have to keep playing, however many innings remain.