Running from Home

The baseball diamond stretched before them like a scar on the evening landscape. David sat in the bleachers, the cold metal seeping through his jeans, watching his son round third base and head for home. The boy was running with that awkward determination of twelve-year-olds, arms pumping, face flushed with effort. David should have felt pride, but instead he felt hollow.

He hadn't told Sarah about the layoff yet. Three weeks of pretending to go to work, spending days in coffee shops with his laptop, applying to jobs that never called back. She'd been distant lately, too—coming home late from the gallery, vague about her hours. They were running parallel lies, a couple of runners on different tracks.

A fox darted past the outfield fence, its russet coat catching the last light. It moved with deliberate purpose, not the scramble of a scavenger but the precision of a creature that knew exactly where it belonged. David envied that certainty.

"You're quiet tonight," Sarah said beside him, surprising him. He'd thought she was scrolling through her phone, but she was watching the game. Or watching him.

"Just tired," he said. The words tasted like ash.

She nodded, accepting the excuse they both knew was inadequate. Her sister's cat—the one they'd agreed to foster temporarily—had scratched David that morning, a thin red line across his forearm. He'd considered it a warning, though he couldn't say from what.

"Tyler's getting fast," she said, nodding toward their son, who'd just scored.

"Yeah. Takes after his mother."

Sarah laughed, a dry, knowing sound. "We're both pretty good at running, David."

The double meaning landed between them like a called third strike. The fox reappeared, now with something small dangling from its jaws—nature's indifference playing out beyond the fence. David looked at his wife, really looked at her, for the first time in months. The lines around her eyes, the way she twisted her rings when she was anxious.

"I lost my job," he said.

She turned to him, and for a terrible moment he thought she'd say she already knew. Instead she took his hand, her palm warm against his cold fingers.

"I know," she said softly. "I've been picking up extra shifts at the gallery. I was waiting for you to tell me."

The baseball game continued around them, but something fundamental had shifted. They weren't running anymore—they were finally, painfully, standing still together.