The Running Man

Mark's iphone buzzed against the nightstand, its blue light cutting through the darkness of yet another motel room. Sarah again. He let it go to voicemail, just like he had the last forty-seven times.

He'd been running for three weeks now—first from the empty house where Buster still waited by the door, then from the office where his dreams had imploded, and finally from himself. The irony wasn't lost on him: he'd spent ten years chasing the bull market, riding crests and troughs, convinced he was mastering the game. Instead, the market had mastered him, leaving him with nothing but hollow victories and a wife who'd finally stopped waiting for him to come back to himself.

His phone lit up again. Not Sarah this time. A notification from his trading app: margin call.

Mark laughed into the empty room. He'd sold everything—the second car, the watches, even the stupid boat he'd bought to impress people he didn't like. But it wasn't enough. The numbers on the screen kept redlining, each digit another reminder that he'd been playing a rigged game and convincing himself he was the player, not the played.

Outside, a dog barked somewhere in the distance. The sound cracked something open in his chest. Buster would be seven now. He'd bought the golden retriever as a puppy, back when he still believed that unconditional love was something you could purchase and house-train. Sarah had kept the dog. She'd kept the house too, though Mark suspected she'd sell it. Too many memories wrapped in every wallboard, every window, every goddamn room where they'd slowly stopped speaking.

The iphone buzzed again. This time he picked up.

"Mark?" Her voice sounded tired. Not angry anymore. Just tired. "Animal control called. Buster got out. He's been looking for you."

The bull market had taken everything else. It had taken his pride, his savings, his marriage. But it hadn't taken the one thing that actually mattered. The one thing that would still be waiting, even after all the running.

"I'm coming home," he said.

Outside, the first light of dawn was breaking over the parking lot. For the first time in three weeks, Mark stopped running.