“Your move,” Dad says.
       The clock clicks louder than it should. It’s been ticking away for twenty years, ever since
Mom died. Dad sets up the pieces the same way every Sunday, even when his hands tremble too
much to hold them straight. He doesn’t talk about anything real anymore. Just the game.
        I stare at the board. My pieces are all paralyzed: knight pinned, rook trapped, queen busy
with other enemy pieces.
        “I’m thinking,” I reply.
         He nods. “You always do that. Think too long.”
         I know that the game is over, beyond the point of no return. Thinking would be a wasted
effort. What I’m really thinking about is much harder to say. When I moved back in six months
ago, the doctor said Dad shouldn’t live alone.
         “His memory’s slipping,” she had said gently. Some days, he forgets his keys or leaves the
fire on in the kitchen. He even forgets I’m here sometimes. But when we play chess, he’s himself
again.
          “You shouldn’t move the rook,” he says, before I even touch it.
           “I wasn’t going to.”
           “Yes, you were.”

            I move a pawn instead, the best move in my lost position. He punishes me instantly, tak-
ing it safely by relying on my distracted queen and overworked rook.

            “You’re losing your edge,” he says.
            His tone hasn’t changed. Still calm, with the appearance of kindness. It’s the same tone he
used when I was a kid, and he’d correct me: not angry, just disappointed.
            I want to tell him that I don’t care about the game right now, that I’ve been trying to leave
for weeks but can’t make myself do it. Every time I start to pack my things, I see his pills on the
counter, his socks mismatched, or the way he stares into space. And I stay.
            He points at the clock. “Time’s running out.”
            I sigh. “You ever think maybe I just don’t want to play?”
            He looks at me now, startled. “But you always play.”
            “I know, but sometimes I don’t want to.”
            He studies me for a second, then sits back, calm again. “You’re afraid of losing.”
            I almost laugh. “Maybe.”
            “You get that from me,” he says, as if it’s something to be proud of.
            The clock continues to tick away. I picture my car in the driveway, bags still half-packed,
the open road leading somewhere fresh, a place that doesn’t sound like this.
            I continue making moves just to gain time, and eventually, we reach a hopeless, lopsided
endgame. All I have is a knight, and he has a bishop and a pawn. My king is glued in place to my
knight, which will either get captured or open up a path for promotion wherever I move it.

            “Zugzwang,” he says.
            I faintly recall that word from when he taught me chess as a kid. It means “compulsion
to move”, describing a position where a player has to move, but every legal move worsens their
position.
            I reach out and tip over my king. The piece falls on its side with a thud in the otherwise
quiet room.
            He stares at it, then at me. “What are you doing?”
            “I’m done.”
            “You can’t just quit like that.”
            I meet his eyes. “I just did.”
            He frowns. “You had moves left.”
            “They were all a waste of time.”
            For a long time, he doesn’t move. No one’s stopped the clock yet, and it beeps as the time
runs out. For once, he doesn’t tap it. When I finally stand up, the chair screeches against the tile.
He doesn’t stop me, doesn’t say my name. I wait for him to tell me I’m making a mistake, but he
just looks at my fallen king, lost in thoughts I can’t see.
            I grab my coat. “I’ll call you,” I say.
            He nods. “Your move,” he whispers.