Signal Lost

The coaxial **cable** hung between us like an accusation. Sarah sat on the couch, arms crossed, watching me fumble with the connector behind the television. Static hissed from the speakers—a perfect metaphor for whatever we'd become.

"You're going to miss the game," she said, not looking up from her phone.

The **baseball** playoffs. I'd forgotten. That's how bad things had gotten. Ten years ago, we'd met at a sports bar during the World Series. She'd been wearing a vintage Cubs jersey, screaming at the TV like her voice could change the outcome. I'd fallen in love with that raw passion. Now she couldn't bother to glance at the screen I was trying to fix.

My fingers kept **running** over the same fraying wire. I'd been meaning to replace it for months. Just like I'd been meaning to ask about her new colleague she mentioned constantly. Just like I'd been meaning to tell her I'd been offered a transfer to Seattle and hadn't said no.

Through the window, movement caught my eye. A **fox** stood at the edge of our subdivision, its rust-colored coat stark against the manicured lawns and identical beige houses. It looked wild, uncertain, entirely out of place. Like it had wandered in from somewhere real and couldn't find its way back.

"There's a fox in the yard," I said.

Sarah finally looked up. "What?"

"A fox. Outside."

She stood and came to the window. For a moment, we stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the creature sniff at a garden gnome. The fox turned, caught us watching through the glass, and held my gaze with something like recognition before vanishing into the trees behind the property line.

"I've never seen one here before," she said quietly. Her hand found mine, almost instinctively. "Remember that trip to Asheville? When we saw the deer?"

I did. We'd been broke, staying in a cabin that smelled of pine and mouse droppings, and we'd talked for three days straight about everything and nothing.

"The cable's fixed," I said, though I hadn't actually finished it. The picture had snapped into clarity while we weren't looking. "But the game's probably over."

"Probably." She squeezed my hand. "I don't care about the game."

Outside, the fox was gone. But something about the way she stood there, not letting go, made me think that maybe—just maybe—we hadn't quite run out of signal after all.