Thunder in the Pocket

Marcus's pocket buzzed. Again. His iphone screen lit up with another Snapchat from the group chat — everyone at the field, waiting. He was supposed to be there fifteen minutes ago, but instead he was frozen in his bathroom staring at himself in the mirror, wondering why he couldn't just be normal like everyone else.

The baseball uniform hung loose on his frame. Dad's old jersey from '89, the one he'd worn for every pickup game since Marcus could remember. You'll thank me someday, his dad always said. Marcus wasn't so sure.

Outside, summer heat pressed against the windows. The air felt thick, heavy with that pre-storm electricity that made the hair on his arms stand up. Weather app said thunderstorms rolling in.

He grabbed his glove and headed out, cutting through the vacant lot behind his house. That's when he saw it — a massive bull staring him down from behind Mr. Henderson's rusted fence. The thing looked ancient, its horns scored with deep grooves, eyes dark and knowing. It stepped forward, and the old fence groaned.

Marcus's heart slammed. He'd seen this bull a dozen times, but something was different today. Or maybe he was.

His pocket buzzed again. Where r u???

Marcus stared at the bull. The bull stared back. And then it hit him — nobody was watching. Nobody expected anything right now. Not his dad, not the team, not the endless stream of notifications demanding pieces of him.

He grabbed his phone, thumbed the camera app, and snapped a picture. Just him, grainy and imperfect, reflected in the bull's eye. Then he posted it to his story. No filter. No caption.

The first crack of lightning split the sky as he turned toward the field, rain already beginning to fall. Let them wait. Let them wonder. For once, Marcus was exactly where he needed to be.