Lightning at the Broken Palm

The **lightning** flashed again, illuminating the motel room where David had been staying for three weeks since Sarah kicked him out. He watched the storm through the window, nursing the same whiskey he'd been pouring since sunset.

On the nightstand, a photo of their last vacation: Sarah beneath a **palm** tree in Key West, her laughter genuine then, before the gambling spiraled out of control. Before he'd emptied their savings in what she called 'one last streak.' The irony wasn't lost on him—palm readings had predicted fortune, but they'd only found ruin.

Their **cat**, Milo, meowed from the carrier in the corner. Sarah had kept the house but made David take the cat, knowing how much he'd miss the creature's midnight purring against his chest. Another calculated cruelty.

A text from his brother lit up his phone: *Come to the **baseball** game tomorrow. Clear your head.* David hadn't played since college, when his pitching scholarship had been the first thing to go after that shoulder injury. The injury that had led him to day trading. The trading that had led him to gambling. The gambling that had cost him everything.

He poured another drink. The weight he'd had to **bear** these past weeks—the shame, the divorce papers, the realization that the man he'd become was someone Sarah couldn't recognize—pressed down on him like physical gravity. Tomorrow he'd face his brother at the ballpark. He'd explain everything. Maybe find a way back.

Another flash of lightning. This time, for the first time in weeks, David didn't flinch.