Three Strikes

The baseball game droned on from the TV above the bar—ninth inning, two outs, the kind of tension that used to make Danny's heart hammer against his ribs when they played in high school. Now it was just background noise, another Thursday evening of solitary drinks and half-watched sports while his iPhone buzzed periodically on the coasters.

Then came the text that made him sit up straight.

*Hey stranger. Remember that triple you hit off Miller senior year?*

It was Mark. The friend he hadn't spoken to since the funeral—since Mark had disappeared inside himself after his wife left, moving apartments and changing jobs without telling anyone. Danny had tried, in the beginning. Calls went to voicemail. Texts went unanswered. He'd stopped trying six months ago.

*What are you doing?* Danny typed back, his thumbs clumsy on the screen.

*Watching this game. Thinking about how you used to say baseball was life, and how neither of us has picked up a bat in fifteen years.*

The notification light blinked—Mark was typing.

*You going to Joe's tomorrow?*

Joe's had closed three years ago. Danny stared at the message until the bartender asked if he wanted another round.

*Mark. Joe's burned down in 2020.*

A long pause. Danny watched the final out on the TV screen, the confetti falling, the celebration of strangers he'd never met. His iPhone vibrated one last time.

*I know. I just—wanted to remember when we knew where to find each other.*

Danny ordered another drink. Outside, the city kept moving, people connecting and disconnecting across networks he couldn't see. But right there, in that moment, he understood something about friendship—that sometimes the people who drift away are the ones still waiting for you to notice they're gone.