I’ve just closed a call with the board – I’ve got to call the legal team, figure out what we’re going to do about the union, why can’t people just get their work done – and I see it through the Venetian blinds. I’m using my mom’s old room while I go through her stuff, figure out what I need to keep, what I should be parceling out to the rest of the family, what I need to get rid of. Can’t stop work, though, not right in the middle of this mess, even if some days I just want to crawl in the middle of the floor and sleep there, curled up, wishing she’d come back and make it all better.

I’m not mistaken. It seems to be looking straight at me.

It’s like there’s an understanding between us. It appeared on the first day I was here, right after a call, and I stopped for a moment to watch it. I’d forgotten what living out in the country could be like. It watched me sip my coffee, and I watched it right back, wondering what it would be like to be a wild animal without a care in the world.

Then it came back the next day, and the next. At some point it stopped being a beautiful moment and I started feeling like I was being haunted. The deer was invasive. Its eyes knew more than they should about me.

I want it gone. I can’t tell if it wants me gone, too, or if it wants me to stay here forever.

I take a sip of my coffee, like I always do, and wish the deer a good morning under my breath. Maybe it’ll leave me alone.

I’ll be glad when I can get back to the city. I didn’t ask for this.