Zones and Dead Zones

Marcie caught her reflection in the lobby glass—thirty-seven and moving like a **zombie** through the fluorescent-lit corridors of Apex Media. Three years of restructuring meetings had hollowed her out completely. She'd stopped wearing her hair down; now she scraped it back mercilessly, as if appearance were something she could no longer afford.

The office goldfish, maintained by the administrative assistant who'd been laid off in February, floated near the surface of its tank. Marcie fed it flakes from her pocket, thinking how easily it swam the same small circles, day after day, forgetting where it had been just moments before.

"You're getting thin," she told it, pressing her forehead against the cool glass.

Outside, **lightning** fractured the sky—sudden violence without sound. The storm system had been hovering over the city for three days, a ceiling of bruised clouds that refused to break.

Her phone buzzed. David. Again.

*You coming to dinner? Your mother's asking.*

Marcie had moved out two months ago. David still acted like she'd just stepped out for milk. He refused to see what was rotten between them—his affairs, her emotional withdrawal, the way they'd become strangers who shared a bed and a mortgage.

She drove to the house anyway, compelled by obligation and guilt. The divorce lawyer had told her to stop engaging, but David's family had been hers for fifteen years.

A **fox** flashed across the road— russet coat brilliant against the asphalt. Marcie slammed the brakes, heart hammering. The fox paused, looked at her with liquid amber eyes, then vanished into the storm-battered treeline.

It felt like an omen.

David's mother Eleanor met her at the door, silver hair perfectly coiffed, smiling like nothing had changed. Marcie sat through dinner making small talk, checking her phone under the table. Work emergencies. Anything to avoid.

"Marcie," David said when the others cleared to the kitchen. "What are we doing?"

"We're not doing anything anymore. That's the problem."

"I cancelled the appointment with the therapist," he said. "I think we should try again. Without interference."

"You mean without someone who'll call you on your bullshit."

"I miss you," he said, and for a moment, Marcie wanted to believe him.

Then she remembered the text messages, the hotel receipts, the way he'd looked at her sister at Christmas. She thought of the goldfish, swimming its endless circles, forgetting nothing and everything.

"I'm not dead, David," she said finally. "I'm just done pretending I am."

The storm broke as she left—rain sheeting down, washing the world clean. Marcie drove toward her empty apartment, feeling something like hope gather beneath her ribs like breath held too long.