The Fox at Home Plate

The iPhone buzzed against the nightstand at 3 AM, the third time tonight. Sarah lay awake, watching the blue light wash over David's sleeping face, his palm curled loosely around the device even in dreams. She thought about how the charging cable snaked across the sheets like a lie she'd stopped untangling months ago.

Tomorrow was the baseball championship — their son's final game before college. David would miss it again. The same excuse, different quarter: "critical deadline," "investors flying in," "can't be helped." The fox that had been eating their marriage was cunning; it disguised itself as ambition.

She remembered their first date, twenty-three years ago. A minor league game, cheap beer, his hand warm in hers. The way he'd explained the curveball mechanics, face lit with something genuine. Now, his face only lit that way for metrics and quarterly projections.

The phone buzzed again.

Sarah's hand hovered over it. She knew the password — his birthday, which she'd stopped celebrating after he forgot theirs for the third time running. A text from her, sent yesterday: "If you're not at Jesse's game tomorrow, I'm done asking."

No reply.

In the backyard, a real fox screamed — that unearthly human cry that always made her think of lost things. She'd started seeing it lately, a rust-colored shadow slipping through the garden at dusk, watching the house with intelligent eyes.

She remembered reading that male foxes leave after mating season. Some species, they just go.

David's iPhone lit up with another notification. Sarah picked it up, walked to the bathroom, and dropped it into the toilet bowl. She watched it sink, that perfect black rectangle that had been between them for years.

"Batter up," she whispered.

In the morning, she would take their son to the game alone. And later, she'd call her sister. The realtor had sent listings last week. She was done waiting for someone who'd already left.