The Last Bright Thing

I found Mark where he'd been for three months—on his couch, surrounded by the detritus of a life paused mid-motion. Mail cascaded like snowdrifts from every surface. The air smelled of stale coffee and something sweeter, almost rotting.

"You brought the **dog**," he said, not looking up from where Luna's tail thumped rhythmically against his leg. She'd always loved him more than she loved me.

"She missed you." I set down the grocery bag. "I brought **vitamin** D supplements. The doctor said—"

"The doctor said a lot of things." Mark finally met my eyes. His were flat, drained of their usual restless energy. "Did he also say I'm thirty-five and I haven't felt like myself since the accident?"

This was the thing about Mark. He'd been the brightest person I knew—brilliant, chaotic, alive—and now he moved through his days like a **zombie** in his own life. Not the brain-eating kind, but the walking dead kind. The kind that goes through motions without feeling them, that sleeps through their own existence.

We'd been **friend**s since college, through failed startups and broken hearts and his parents' deaths. But this—the accident that had killed his fiancée and left him physically whole but spiritually hollow—this was different.

Luna whined, nudging his hand with her wet nose. Something cracked in Mark's expression.

"I don't know how to be anymore," he whispered. "I take the pills. I see the therapists. I show up at work. But I'm just... going through the movements."

"Then stop moving," I said. "Just stop. Stay here with Luna. Let yourself rot if you need to. But don't pretend you're living."

His laugh surprised both of us—short, sharp, real.

"You're terrible at this," he said, but he was scratching Luna behind the ears now, really scratching her, like he meant it. "You're supposed to bring me hope, or tell me it gets better."

"I brought you a dog," I said. "She's better at hope than I am."

Mark looked at Luna, who was now sprawled across his legs, snoring softly. He looked at the vitamin bottles on his table. He looked at me.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

Outside, the sun came out. Luna twitched in her sleep, chasing something in dreams. For the first time in three months, Mark's eyes tracked the light.

It wasn't hope. It wasn't fixed. But it was something real.