The Supplicant

Margot placed the orange gelatinous oval on her tongue — vitamin D, the doctor called it, though she knew it was really Vitamin Hope. Something to swallow when the winter stretched too long and the apartment became a mausoleum of half-finished projects.

Her dog, Barnaby, watched from the rug, his head cocked at that angle that made her wonder what dogs actually thought about humans. Probably that we were creatures of baffling rituals. He was the only living being who saw her cry on Tuesdays, the only one who knew she sometimes ate cereal for dinner.

The phone buzzed. Elena.

Margot's thumb hovered over accept. Elena had been her friend since college, the kind of friend who knew where the bodies were buried because she'd helped you dig the graves. But somewhere between Elena's promotion and Margot's downward spiral, the texts had grown shorter. The visits more intermittent. Now Elena wanted something — she always did when she called after 8 PM.

"Hey," Margot said, her voice rough from disuse.

"Did you hear about David?"

David. The name landed like a stone in still water. Three years, and still the mention of him made something behind her ribs contract.

"No," she said.

"He's getting married. To Sarah."

The vitamin sat heavy in her stomach. Sarah, who was everything Margot wasn't: luminous, uncomplicated, someone who didn't need supplements to feel human.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I thought you should know. From someone who cares."

There it was — the knife twist disguised as concern. Elena cared, in her way. But she also thrived on being the bearer of hard truths, the witness to others' suffering.

Barnaby stood and walked to her, pressing his warm side against her leg. His animal simplicity was the only honest thing in the room.

"I have to go," Margot said.

"Wait, I was thinking we could—"

"Not tonight."

She ended the call and sat with the phone screen glowing in the dark. Outside, the city made its ambient music: sirens, distant laughter, the hum of being alive in a way she hadn't felt in years.

She reached for the vitamin bottle and dry-swallowed another pill. This one was something else — B-complex, for energy she didn't have. The doctor had said depression was chemical. That it could be fixed with the right combination of things you put in your body.

Barnaby sighed, that exhuff of dog resignation, and rested his chin on her knee. His brown eyes held no judgment, no expectation that she be better or different or fixed. He simply was.

"You're a good friend," she whispered to him, fingers tangling in his fur.

He licked her hand, his tongue rough and real and unconditionally present. In that moment, it was enough.