The rusted gate creaked open again. Sarah sighed, the sound lost in the drone of the lawnmower she hadn’t touched in weeks. It was always the same. Buster, the golden retriever from next door, saw an opportunity, and the chase was on. She watched him, panting and grinning, dig under the fence for the tenth time this month. Picking up the hose, she trudged toward the hole. What was the point of anything, really?
Her hands trembled as she sprayed the water, a futile attempt to deter the escape artist. The sun beat down, making the sweat trickle down her back. A sharp pang of exhaustion hit her, deeper than mere physical fatigue. Her reflection in the grimy window of the shed showed a woman aged beyond her years, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, her eyes dull.
“Hey!” a voice called out. It was Mr. Henderson, the dog’s owner. He was always so cheerful. “Sorry about that, Sarah! He’s getting trickier, isn’t he?”
She mumbled a reply, unable to lift her gaze. How could she explain the hollowness that consumed her, the feeling that she was just... existing? He wouldn't understand. She watched Mr. Henderson lead Buster back to his yard, the dog’s tail wagging like a metronome.