Palm Springs, Last Inning

The baseball lay in the grass, weathered and splitting at the seams. Elias picked it up, remembering how it had felt to grip a ball properly, before the arthritis. Before the running. Always the running.

He'd been running for thirty-two years—first from the draft, then from Diana, then from himself. The palm trees swayed above his trailer, indifferent witnesses to his cowardice. Palm Springs had seemed like a good idea at the time. Distance, anonymity, heat that made you forget what cold felt like.

The boy from the next trailer over stood at the edge of Elias's yard, kicking at the dirt. "You play?"

"Haven't in years." Elias tossed the ball. It wobbled in the air.

"Show me."

"You should ask someone else."

"There's no one else."

The boy's name was Mateo. Twelve, same age Elias had been when his father first put a baseball in his hand and said, "This is how you make something of yourself." The weight of expectations, carried in a leather sphere.

Elias's palm still remembered the mechanics. The grip, the windup, the release. His shoulder reminded him immediately why he'd stopped. Pain shot through it, sharp and familiar.

"Again," Mateo said.

They did it again. And again.

"Where'd you learn?" the boy asked, after the tenth throw.

"High school. College briefly."

"You were good?"

"I was scared." Elias wiped his palm on his jeans. "Some people run toward things. I ran away. From coaches, from scouts, from anything that mattered."

"My dad says running away is for cowards."

"Your dad's right."

"He left last year. So who's the coward?"

The question hung in the desert heat. Palm fronds rustled overhead like dry whispers.

Elias checked his watch. 4:17 PM. "Same time tomorrow?"

"If you're not running."

"I'm done running."

That night, Elias called Diana. It rang five times before she picked up.

"Elias?"

"Di. I know it's been—"

"Thirty-two years."

"I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. And that I'm still here. In case you ever wanted to—"

"Why now?"

He looked at his hand, the palm still remembering today's throws. "I met someone who reminded me that the only thing worse than striking out is never stepping up to the plate."

"You always did hate baseball metaphors."

"Yeah." He smiled into the phone. "Come to Palm Springs, Di. I'll teach you how to throw a curveball."

He could hear her breathing on the other end. Then, softly: "Check your email."

The flight confirmation arrived two minutes later.