The Bottom of the Ninth

The baseball stadium lights hummed overhead as Marcos slumped into the plastic seat, his gray hair limp with sweat. Beside him, Jenna's golden ponytail swished when she turned, her expression that careful neutral she'd worn since the funeral.

"You look like a zombie," she said, not unkindly.

"Feel like one." He gestured at the field where players stretched like languid insects under the floodlights. "Sarah always loved baseball. Used to drag me to games. First time since she—I don't know. Feels wrong being here without her."

Jenna's hand found his shoulder, squeezing. That's what friends did. They showed up. They sat beside you in empty stadiums and bought you overpriced beer and didn't flinch when you talked about your dead wife.

"Buster's waiting at home," Marcos said. "He's been sleeping in her closet again. The dog knows. Animals always know."

"He'll adjust. You both will."

"Will we?" He ran fingers through thinning hair. "Thirty-eight, Jenna. Everyone says it gets easier. They lie. It just gets quieter."

The organist thundered the charge theme. Fans roared to life. Around them, strangers high-fived and spilled popcorn and lived as if grief couldn't touch them. Marcos had become expert at spotting the other zombies—the ones with hollow eyes who moved through proper motions, who smiled on cue, who sat empty in crowded rooms.

"She made me promise," Marcos said quietly. "Before—she said, 'Marcos, don't you dare become one of those widowers who forgets how to live.' Look at me. I'm keeping that promise, aren't I? One baseball game at a fucking time."

Jenna laughed, startled, and it was the first genuine sound either had made all evening. "That's exactly what she meant. You're doing it, Marcos. You're terrible at it, but you're doing it."

The pitcher wound back. The ball cracked against the bat. And for three seconds, Marcos forgot everything except the impossible arc of a sphere against stadium lights, the way gravity itself seemed to pause before the ball dropped into the outfielder's mitt.

"Play ball," Jenna whispered.

He nodded. The bottom of the ninth. Somehow, the game continued.