The Burden of Care

The bottle of vitamin D sat on his nightstand like a tiny accusation. Dr. Patel had prescribed them after the divorce was finalized, after the bloodwork revealed what David already knew—he was falling apart from the inside. Thirty years old and already calcifying.

He woke at 3 AM to the dog whining at the door. Barnaby, his ex-wife's golden retriever that he'd kept because she couldn't take him to her new apartment in the city. The dog was old now, his muzzle grayed, his hips stiff. They were both aging out of the life they'd been promised.

David padded barefoot to the kitchen, the linoleum cold against his feet. Outside, beyond the sliding glass doors, something moved in the darkness. Massive and dark. He held his breath.

A bear.

It stood on its hind legs against the bird feeder, its silhouette broad and impossibly tall against the moonlight. David's heart hammered. This close to the cabin in Vermont, bears weren't uncommon, but seeing one like this—there was something almost biblical about it. The creature dropped to all fours and lumbered away, unconcerned with the human watching from behind glass.

The bear would wake tomorrow and hunt, and it would either eat or it would starve, and either way it would not question its purpose. It would not find itself at 3 AM staring at vitamin bottles, feeling like a fraud in his own life.

Barnaby nosed David's hand, and David sank to the floor, burying his face in the dog's ruff. The animal smelled of earth and sleep and unconditional devotion. "We're just surviving, buddy," David whispered. "That's enough."

The vitamins could wait until morning. The bear would return or it wouldn't. David lay on the kitchen floor with the dog curled against his side, and for the first time in months, he slept.