Foxes Don't Play Baseball

She found him in the backyard at midnight, standing under the sodium glow of the streetlamp, baseball glove on his left hand, throwing a tennis ball against the fence. Catch. Throw. Catch. Throw. Like he could throw himself back to before.

The dog lay on the porch, chin on paws, watching them both with rheumy eyes. Old Barnaby. He'd been there when they bought the house, there when the promotions came, there when they stopped speaking in complete sentences.

"You're a zombie," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "You know that, right?"

He didn't turn. "Foxes got into the garden again."

"What?"

"Foxes. Tore up the tomatoes." His voice was flat, affectless. "I saw one earlier. Red as a flame. Just sitting there like it owned the place."

She crossed the lawn, the grass damp against her bare ankles. When she reached for his glove, he flinched. But he let her take it.

"Your father taught you to pitch," she said softly. "That's what this is about, isn't it?"

"He died three years ago."

"I know. But you're still standing here playing catch with his ghost."

The dog lifted his head, whined.

"Look," she said. "Baseball was a game. Your father knew that. You think he'd want you out here at midnight, throwing tennis balls at a fence, letting life pass you by? You're thirty-five years old. You're not that scared kid in the backyard anymore."

He finally looked at her. His eyes were hollow, sleepless.

"I don't know how to stop," he whispered.

A rustle in the hedge. The fox again — sleek, composed, watching them with amber eyes. It didn't run. It just stood there, wild and unbowed, utterly alive.

The dog struggled up, joints creaking, and limped to the fence. The fox didn't move. They regarded each other across the wire mesh: domestic and wild, both just trying to survive in a world that hadn't asked for either of them.

"Tomorrow," she said, taking his hand. "We're going to sleep in. Then we're replanting those tomatoes. And if that fox comes back, we'll build a better fence. Together."

He looked at the fox, then at the dog, then at her. Something cracked in his chest.

"Okay," he said. "Tomorrow."

The fox slipped away into darkness. The baseball glove lay on the grass. For the first time in months, they went inside together.