The Cable Man's Last Dive

The corporate hotel pool was empty at 2 AM, which was exactly what David needed. He'd spent fourteen hours laying cable for a conference room that would be used by people who made in a day what he made in a year. His back ached, his hands were raw, and he felt like something that had been half-alive for too long.

His golden retriever, Buster, waited by the pool's edge, whining softly. Buster was the only living thing that still looked at David like he was worth something. Sarah had left six months ago — said she couldn't watch him turn into the person he'd become. She'd called it emotional unavailability; he'd called it exhaustion.

The underwater lights cast rippling blue shadows across the concrete. David remembered when he'd proposed to Sarah in a pool like this, ten years ago in Cancun. He'd been so sure then — about everything. Now he just dragged cable through walls and fell asleep to Netflix.

His phone buzzed. A text from his supervisor: "Client wants the entire run redone. Tomorrow."

David stood waist-deep in the warm water, Buster now paddling beside him. He looked at his reflection — really looked. A zombie. That's what he'd become. One of those walking dead souls who forgot what he was marching toward somewhere along the way.

"Buster," he said, and the dog paddled closer, "you think it's too late?"

Buster shook water from his snout, splashing David's face, and for the first time in months, David laughed. It wasn't much, but it was something. The cable could wait. The zombies could wait. Tomorrow he'd call Sarah. Tomorrow he'd quit. But tonight, he had a pool and a dog who still believed in second chances.