You know that feeling when you get a call from your dad and you already know what it’s about before he even says anything? Like, the tone in his voice, this… almost *empty* sound, even when he’s trying to be upbeat. It’s a specific kind of dread, you know? Not like, bad news, more like… another piece of the puzzle just got taken out. Another one, *poof*. So yeah, he called today, Tuesday, around noon his time. Always Tuesday, because that’s when his weekly poker game is supposed to be. Or was. He always tells me about it, what cards he had, who won. It’s like a ritual. He lives, like, a thousand miles away, and this is our thing. His little slice of normal. This time, he says, "Well, son, looks like it's just me and George this week." And you can tell he’s trying to make it sound like no big deal, like, "Oh, just a small game, you know how it is." But I know. I *know*. It’s a big deal. Last month it was Frank, in the hospital again. Before that, it was Mrs. Henderson, God bless her. Now it’s just George. And George, God love him, I met him once, he falls asleep mid-sentence. My dad told me once George accused him of stealing a five of spades, swore on his mother’s grave. Dad said he just let him have it. Like, what’s the point? You just… let it go. And it just makes you think, what’s next? What else gets stripped away? What’s the final thing? And I’m sitting here, I got like six unread emails from my boss, a deadline I blew, and I’m staring at my phone. I should call him back. I should say something. "Oh, that’s too bad, Dad." Or "Maybe you guys can find someone else?" But what’s the point? He already knows. He already knows he can’t. Who else is there? Everyone else is either gone or too far gone, you know? It’s not like they’re out there recruiting new blood for a septuagenarian card game. It’s just… you’re watching this whole world shrink. From a distance. And every time he says something like that, every time another chair gets empty at that card table, it’s a little… *thump*. In your chest. Like, not painful, not really. Just… a reminder. That everything eventually just… stops. And you’re just here. Watching. And feeling nothing. Almost. You know? I’ll call him tomorrow. Maybe. Or Thursday. After my meeting. When I’m not… doing whatever this is.