What We Keep Alive

Marcus stood in Pet Kingdom, holding the flimsy plastic bag like it contained nuclear waste instead of a carnival prize goldfish. His little sister Jasmine had won it, predictably, and now it was his problem because Mom was "working late" again, which everyone knew meant drinking wine with her coworker Gary.

"Betta not eat him," Marcus muttered, staring at the fish that swam in tiny, frantic circles. Like how his chest felt when he saw Chloe in the hallway yesterday and she didn't even wave back.

At home, Buster—their ancient, farting golden retriever—thumped his tail against the linoleum. Buster had been Dad's dog, back when Dad still lived here instead of in that apartment downtown with his "new family." Marcus had started taking these vitamin D supplements because Dr. Patel said his mood was "seasonally affected," which was medical speak for your parents splitting up and your friends all drifting away to parties you're not invited to.

He dumped the goldfish into a mayonnaise jar he'd cleaned out like, three times. It looked miserable.

"Same," Marcus told it.

His phone buzzed. Group chat blowing up about Tyler's party Friday. Everyone was going. Even Jasmine, who was fourteen and somehow cooler than he was. Marcus typed "can't" then backspaced. Typed "maybe" then deleted. Set the phone down like it was radioactive.

Buster wheezed, nudging Marcus's hand with that wet, concerned nose of his. And suddenly Marcus was crying, not like in the movies but ugly and snot-filled, while this fish he hadn't even named swam in a mayonnaise jar and this dog that smelled like old blankets pressed against his leg.

"Growth spurt," he choked out, wiping his face with his shirt. "Hormones. Whatever."

The fish did a weird little flip. Buster let out this long, dramatic sigh. Marcus grabbed the vitamin bottle—orange-flavored gummies shaped like bears—and ate three in a row.

"Fine," he said to the room, to the dog, to the fish, to whoever was listening. "Fine."

He typed into the group chat: "I'll bring snacks."

Jasmine walked in, saw his red eyes, the mayonnaise jar, the empty vitamin bottle.

"You good?" she asked, not unkindly.

Marcus looked at the goldfish, now doing a tiny victory lap around its jar.

"Yeah," he said, and almost meant it. "I'm working on it."