Riddles in the Infield

The oncology ward's garden had a **sphinx** statue—weathered bronze, wings half-spread, staring at nothing. Elena found it fitting. Her brother David had always loved riddles, even now when his body was betraying him, his cells dividing like frantic base runners trying to steal home.

"You gonna eat that?" David nodded at the plastic container of **spinach** she'd brought, his voice thin as hospital sheets.

"It's good for you," she said automatically, the way she'd been saying for three months, since the diagnosis came like a called third strike—out of nowhere.

He laughed, a dry rustle. "Remember when we were kids? You tried to make me eat it raw. Said it would make me strong like Popeye."

"You cried for an hour."

"I was six." His eyes drifted to the television where the **baseball** game played—mute, flickering. "Remember Dad taking us to that Yankees game? Seventh inning stretch, mustard on my shirt, you holding my hand so I wouldn't get lost in the crowd."

Elena's throat tightened. "I remember you refusing to leave until you got a foul ball. You didn't. You cried then too."

"I was nine." His hand sought hers across the blanket, pale fingers interlacing with hers. They hadn't held hands since they were children themselves, before adulthood pulled them into separate orbits, him in Chicago with his corporate job, her in Seattle with her failed marriage and freelance work. Cancer had brought them back together, this terrible gravity.

"What's the answer?" David whispered suddenly.

"To what?"

"The riddle." His gaze drifted toward the sphinx. "What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening..."

"Man," she said, the childhood answer automatic. "You know this one."

"But what comes after?" His eyes found hers, suddenly fierce. "What happens when there are no legs left?"

The question hung between them, heavy and unanswerable. Outside, the sphinx continued its silent vigil, its stone face locked in an eternal riddle that had no solution either.

"You're not leaving yet," Elena said, her voice breaking. "Spinach or no spinach."

"Just a **friend** checking," he smiled weakly, squeezing her hand. "Just checking."

On television, a batter connected—the ball arcing upward, a perfect parabola against the artificial sky. For a moment, it seemed it might never come down. But of course it did. Everything does.