The Longest Inning

The zombie apocalypse had come and gone, or so we thought. It turned out the real zombies were the ones like me—showing up at the same data entry job for twelve years, consuming spinach smoothies in the breakroom while pretending to care about quarterly projections, feeling dead inside while maintaining the appearance of functionality.

"You look like hell," Jenna said from the neighboring cubicle, not looking up from her spreadsheet.

"Rough night. Buster kept me up."

My dog, a golden retriever mix with more loyalty than sense, had developed separation anxiety after my divorce. He'd howl for hours whenever I left, his mournful soundtrack following me to work like a ghost.

That evening, I sat on my balcony watching the baseball game from the neighbor's television. The players moved with such purpose, such conviction—each pitch mattered, each swing held weight. I envied them their certainty. When had I last felt certain about anything?

Buster pressed his warm body against my leg, his thumping tail the only steady rhythm in my uncertain world. I scratched behind his ears and watched a batter strike out, dropping to one knee in frustration.

"You and me both, buddy," I muttered.

The divorce papers sat on my kitchen counter, final and absolute. Twelve years reduced to signatures and legal fees. My ex had wanted someone more alive—her words, not mine. She'd packed her things last month, leaving me with Buster, half the furniture, and a spinach plant that was somehow still alive despite everything.

I watered that plant every morning. Maybe that's why I kept going—the small奇迹 that something could survive on so little.

The game went into extra innings. Long past midnight, I found myself still watching, Buster asleep at my feet, the spinach plant silhouetted in moonlight through the sliding door. Maybe tomorrow I'd apply for that graduate program. Maybe I'd adopt another dog so Buster wouldn't be lonely. Maybe the zombie part of me was finally ready to wake up.

The batter connected. The ball sailed into the lights. For the first time in months, something inside me lifted.

"Holy shit," I whispered, and Buster's tail gave a single thump in response.

Small miracles, indeed.