Three Strikes in a Glass Bowl

Marcus found himself running again—not from anything specific, but toward nothing in particular. At 2 AM, the streets of his neighborhood were empty, save for the occasional stray cat and his own echoing footsteps on pavement that still held the day's heat. This was the third time this week. His therapist called it "avoidance coping." Marcus called it the only thing keeping him from screaming.

He slowed to a walk near the old Little League field where he'd spent every Saturday of his childhood. His father had been the coach, the kind who screamed at ten-year-olds for missing grounders like the World Series depended on it. "You think life gives you do-overs?" his father would yell, spit flying from his lips. "Baseball doesn't forgive, and neither does life."

Marcus hadn't picked up a bat in twenty years, but sometimes he still dreamed about the perfect swing—the crack of the bat, the ball soaring into lights that didn't exist, his father finally nodding instead of scowling. The dream always ended the same way: he'd round third base, heading for home, and the diamond would stretch endlessly, the base forever beyond his reach.

He unlocked his front door quietly. Elena was probably asleep, or maybe she was gone again—staying at her sister's, she'd said, though her sister lived three hours away. The house felt wrong without her chaotic warmth. Without her collection of mismatched mugs. Without the Goddamn goldfish.

There it was, swimming in endless circles in its overpriced tank on the kitchen counter. A rescue goldfish, Elena had called it, saving it from her nephew's carnival prize negligence. She'd named him Existential Nate. Marcus had thought it was hilarious, then endearing, then irritating, and now—it was the only living thing that still looked at him with something resembling recognition, even if fish brains were the size of peanuts and goldfish forgot everything every three seconds.

He fed the fish, watching it surface with that stupidly open mouth.

"You're living the dream, Nate," Marcus whispered. "Swimming in circles, forgetting everything, starting fresh every moment. No past, no future, just now. Again and again."

The goldfish ate, then forgot it had eaten, then swam to the surface again, waiting for more.

Marcus's phone buzzed. A text from Elena: *I'm not coming back. I'm tired of waiting for you to stop running.*

He sat on the kitchen floor, the cool tile seeping through his sweats, and watched the goldfish complete another perfect circle. Outside, dawn was beginning to bruise the sky purple and gray. He could go for another run. He could call her. He could sit here and watch a fish live the same moment forever.

Instead, Marcus did something he hadn't done in years. He called his father.