The Last Inning

The lightning illuminated the bruised sky through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Marcus's corner office—or what had been his office until three hours ago.

'You'll land on your feet,' Elena had said, hand on his shoulder, her voice dripping with that carefully calibrated sympathy that made him want to scream. They'd been competitors for seven years, friends for three, lovers for none of them. Now she had his title, his team, and his view of the Chicago skyline.

Marcus packed his box with the efficiency of a man who'd rehearsed this moment. The baseball from the company softball championship—his three-run homer that clinched it—rolled into his palm. He remembered Elena standing on the dugout steps that day, watching him with something like pride, something like hunger. He should have known then.

The storm broke as he walked to the garage. Rain fell in sheets. He almost missed it—the movement beneath his car, a flash of white. A cat, shivering and matted, pressed against the warm tire.

Marcus knelt, his good trousers soaking through. The cat regarded him with yellow eyes that seemed to recognize him.

'David?' he whispered.

David, who'd died two years ago. David, who'd loved cats and terrible puns and the Cubs. David, who would've known exactly what to say about Elena's betrayal, would've made some joke about corporate lightning strikes while pouring too much wine.

Marcus lifted the cat. It purred against his chest, a vibration he felt more than heard. David had been gone longer than they'd been close, but here was this creature, warm and alive and utterly unconcerned with promotions or office politics or the precise geometry of heartbreak.

'Well,' Marcus said, the cat's wet fur soaking his shirt. 'Guess I need to buy cat food.'

The lightning flashed again, and for the first time all night, he didn't flinch. Some innings end badly. Some end with unexpected runners on base. The game wasn't over.