The Things We Carry

The baseball field lights hummed against the twilight, casting long shadows across the empty bleachers where Marcus sat, a flask of bourbon warming his pocket. Three years since Elena left, and he still came here sometimes—where they'd had their first date, where she'd told him she wanted children he couldn't give her, where she'd said goodbye like she was discussing the weather.

"You look like shit, Marcus."

He didn't turn. Sarah's voice was unchanged—sharp as ever, with that fox-like cleverness that had made her both his oldest friend and his most dangerous rival in law school. She sat beside him, familiar scent of gin and expensive perfume cutting through the evening air.

"Rough week," he said. "Lost the custody case. The father got the kids."

Sarah's silence stretched. "The bear of a case? The one you've been losing sleep over for months?"

"The very same." Marcus took a drink. "Judge ruled father more stable. Mother's history of depression didn't help. Even though she's been in treatment for years. Even though the kids begged to stay with her."

"Depression's a cat, Marcus. It curls up inside you, purring sometimes, scratching other times. But people treat it like it's rabies." Sarah's voice softened. "Like it's something you can catch by proximity."

They sat together as the field lights flickered on, illuminating the worn diamond where children would play tomorrow, laughing and running, oblivious to the adults destroying each other in courtrooms over who deserved them most.

"I remember," Marcus said quietly, "when we were twenty-two, sitting in these same bleachers, drunk on cheap wine and certainty. You told me you'd never compromise. Never settle. Never become the kind of lawyer who helped the wrong people win just because the law allowed it."

Sarah's laugh was bitter. "And then life happened. Student loans. Mortgage. The realization that being good doesn't always pay the bills. What about you? You wanted to change the family court system from within."

"I tried," Marcus said. "But the system's a machine that grinds up idealism and spits out cynicism. You know what keeps me going? The cat. My sister's Depression Era cat, named after the era, not the condition. Seventeen years old, blind in one eye, but still purrs when you feed her. She doesn't care about billable hours or precedent. She just wants warmth."

Sarah leaned her head on his shoulder, something she hadn't done since before law school, before they became opponents more often than allies. "Maybe that's enough," she said. "Maybe finding small things worth caring about is how we survive the big things that try to crush us."

Marcus watched as a stray cat darted across the outfield, quick and purposeful. Maybe Sarah was right. Maybe you couldn't fix everything that was broken. Maybe you just kept showing up, kept trying, kept finding reasons to purr in a world that mostly wanted to scratch you.

"Next week," he said. "Same time?"

Sarah's smile was genuine. "Bring better bourbon."