It’s been almost two months since I last remembered what “normal” feels like. Normal has packed its bags, left a note on the fridge, and hasn’t been seen since. Meanwhile, sickness has moved in, kicked off its shoes, and made itself at home, winning battle after battle while I mostly merge into the fabric of the couch like some forgotten throw pillow.

This afternoon I surrendered completely, drifting into sleep in a half-hearted attempt to outwit the pain in my hands. Not the polite “ache” kind of pain, but the sort of bone-cracking, medieval-torture-chamber pain that makes you wonder if someone swapped your skeleton with IKEA parts.

But then came the tiny savior. A whining sausage dog, determined, stubborn, and absolutely immune to my theatrics. With a sigh, I peeled myself off the couch like leftover pizza from foil, and followed her out into the evening.

And there, limping behind a dog who believes she’s the reincarnation of a wolf, I became a zombie in the September sun. The fields stretched golden, the clouds puffed up like cotton candy at a carnival, and for a moment, even my complaining bones shut up to watch.

Tomorrow may not be better. But it also might. And sometimes, that tiny “might” is enough to keep shuffling forward.