Flood Damage

Mark stood on the padel court at the country club, rain plastering his dress shirt against his chest, watching Daniel serve. The ball cracked against the racket—a sound like bone breaking—and sailed into the darkness beyond the court.

"You going to play or what?" Daniel called out, grinning that same shark grin that had sealed million-dollar deals back when they'd both been rising stars at the firm. "I recall you being more aggressive."

Mark didn't move. He looked at the water streaming off the court's glass walls, distorting the clubhouse lights beyond. There had been a time when he would have given anything to be in Daniel's orbit—to be the friend who got the introductions, the stock tips, the golden ticket to the upper deck.

That was before the water treatment plant collapsed in Dayton. Before Daniel's cost-cutting measures—those efficiency reports Mark had signed off on without reading—became a matter of public record. Before fourteen-year-old Ashley Patterson died of E. coli poisoning.

"I remember Little League," Mark said finally. "Our coach used to say baseball was about how you responded when the ball came at your head. Either you stood in and took your cut, or you bailed."

Daniel's smile faltered. "Mark, we agreed—the settlement's confidential. The consulting gig in Dubai, it's a fresh start. For both of us."

"The thing is," Mark said, stepping toward the net, "I've been standing in for eighteen years. Taking my cuts at whatever pitches you called. But last week, I met Ashley's father."

Thunder rolled. The wind drove rain harder against the glass.

"He keeps her baseball glove," Mark continued. "Says she could've played D-1 softball. Said he still waters her grave every Sunday."

Daniel's face went slack. He dropped his racket.

Mark pulled the folded documents from his pocket—printouts he'd made before shredding the originals at the office. "The Times has the rest. This is just for you."

He tossed them onto the wet court. The paper drank the water instantly, the ink beginning to bleed.

"They'll ask where the leak came from," Daniel whispered.

"They'll figure it out," Mark said. "I'm done taking pitches."

He walked off the court as Daniel fell to his knees in the downpour, reaching for the dissolving pages like they were something he could save, like friendship or loyalty ever mattered when the water finally rose.