The Last Good Summer

The cabin had been Sarah's mother's, a relic of 1970s optimism with orange shag carpeting and windows that actually opened. Now it sat on the edge of Vermilion Lake, holding the accumulated weight of thirty years of marriage.

David stood on the dock at dawn, watching the mist curl off the water like smoke. He'd been unable to sleep, his mind replaying the conversation from the night before—the way Sarah's voice had gone flat when she said she wasn't happy anymore. Not unhappy. Just not happy. The distinction felt enormous, a canyon opening beneath their feet.

He stripped down to his skin and stepped into the lake. The shock of cold water took his breath away. He began swimming, cutting through the water with desperate strokes, as if distance from the shore could buy him time. This was how he'd been moving through life for years—efficient, forward-motion, afraid to stop and feel anything that might catch up with him.

The previous evening, they'd watched a zombie marathon on cable, something they used to do in their early twenties, tangled together on the couch, making fun of the bad special effects. Last night, they'd sat on opposite ends. Sarah had commented on how the zombies were just people who'd forgotten what they were running toward. David had kept quiet, because the truth was, he didn't know if he was running toward anything anymore.

A noise from the treeline broke his rhythm. A black bear, its coat gleaming in the morning light, stood at the edge of the property. It regarded him with mild interest, then turned and ambled away toward the berries. The sight of it—wild, unhurried, belonging to itself—made something in his chest ache.

He swam back to shore, exhausted and shivering. Sarah was standing on the dock, wrapped in her robe, holding two mugs of coffee.

"I saw a bear," he said, accepting the mug.

"Me too," she said. "From the window. It looked... free."

They stood in silence as the sun crested the trees. The water dripped from David's hair onto the weathered wood.

"I don't want to be a zombie," he said finally. "But I think I've been acting like one."

Sarah turned toward him, and for the first time in months, really looked at him. "We both have. Maybe that's something we can fix."

The coffee was hot, the morning was impossibly beautiful, and for the first time in a long time, David thought they might actually figure out how to be alive together again.