Running on Empty

She ran every morning, not because she enjoyed it, but because the pain in her lungs was the only thing that made her feel alive anymore. At 34, Maya had become what her therapist called a "high-functioning zombie"—someone who went through the motions of living while feeling absolutely nothing inside. The antidepressants helped, supposedly, but mostly they just made the void bearable. Manageable.

The dog had been Hector's idea. A therapy companion, he'd said, something to nurture. But Hector had been gone for six months now, and Barnaby—a Golden Retriever with hopelessly matted fur and one ear that refused to stand up—was hers alone. Every morning, he'd wait by the door, tail thumping against the wood floor with an optimism that exhausted her.

"Yeah, yeah," she'd mutter, lacing her running shoes. "I know."

They ran along the waterfront, where the gray water of the bay slapped against the pylons. Sometimes Maya imagined wading in, letting the cold water fill her lungs, just to feel something real. Instead she ran, Barnaby trotting faithfully beside her, his pink tongue lolling, his absurd fur catching the wind like a golden cloud.

Today, she stopped at the small market near the pier. The clerk, an elderly man who knew her by sight, dropped a bag of spinach into her hands.

"You look like you need this," he said. "Green things. They help."

Maya almost laughed. Instead she bought it, along with a bottle of wine she had no intention of sharing with anyone.

Back at the apartment, she stood over the sink, rinsing the spinach. The cold water rushed over her fingers, over the green leaves that suddenly looked impossibly vibrant, impossibly alive. She thought of Hector—how he'd cooked dinner every Thursday, how he'd made fun of her preference for takeout, how he'd said, "We're like plants, May. We need the right conditions to grow."

Barnaby pressed against her leg, whining softly.

"I know," she whispered. "I know."

She didn't cook the spinach. She stood there, water running over her hands, the dog warm against her, and for the first time in six months, she cried. The tears mixed with the tap water, mixed with the green leaves clutched in her fist. Something cracked open inside her chest—not healed, not fixed, but finally, finally, feeling.

Barnaby licked her hand, and Maya didn't pull away. Outside, the morning light shifted across the floor. Another day. Maybe that was enough for now.