Water Rising

Marcus hit the pavement at 5:47 AM, same as every morning for three years. Running had become less exercise and more escape—a way to exhaust himself enough that sleep might come without the pills. The Detroit River reflected the gray predawn sky, water like liquid iron.

He hadn't been a real person since the divorce. Just a zombie in corporate drag, going through motions so practiced they felt like someone else's memories. At work, they called him "dead man walking" behind his back. He knew because he'd seen it in the chat logs he wasn't supposed to have access to. IT security was a joke, much like everything else at the firm.

The morning drizzle intensified. Marcus didn't care. His expensive running shoes slapped wet asphalt, a rhythm he could lose himself in. He'd left his wedding ring in the bathroom sink six months ago. It had been there ever since.

A figure approached through the mist—another runner. Recognition hit like ice water.

Sarah. From legal. The one with the kind eyes who'd brought him soup when pneumonia nearly killed him two winters ago. The one he'd been too hollow to notice until she'd transferred to Chicago.

She stopped. Recognition in hers too.

"Marcus?"

"Sarah." His voice sounded rusty. "You're back."

"Weekends only." She adjusted her hat—a faded Red Sox cap he remembered from before. "Seeing someone in Ann Arbor."

The water rising behind his eyes had nothing to do with rain. "That's—that's good."

"You okay, Marcus? You look..." She didn't finish. Sarah had always been too kind to say the words. You look like a man who's already dead.

"Running helps." The lie tasted like ash.

"You don't have to do this alone." She reached for his arm, then stopped herself. Professional boundaries. Personal fears. Whatever else held people back from saying what they meant.

"I'm not alone," he said, and believed it for the first time in years. "I'm just running the wrong direction."

Sarah smiled, and the morning got a little lighter. "Then turn around."

He watched her disappear into the mist. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he'd stop running. Tomorrow he'd call the therapist. Tomorrow he'd fish the ring out of the sink and call his brother.

Marcus turned toward home, the rain washing away something he couldn't name, the zombie behind his eyes finally opening them.