Bottom of the Ninth

The surveillance van smelled of stale coffee and the metallic tang of old electronics. Elena sat in the dark, watching the monitors, feeling the familiar fog of another twelve-hour shift settling into her bones. Three years of corporate espionage work had left her hollowed out, a ghost haunting her own life. She moved through her days like a zombie, present but not quite alive, the person she used to be fading like a photograph left too long in the sun.

Her target was in section 214, row 12. The baseball stadium pulsed with the collective energy of forty thousand people, their roars and groans washing over the parking lot where Elena waited. She could see him on camera 3—gray hair, expensive suit, can of beer in hand, cheering as a player connected with the ball. The crack of the bat echoed through the van's speakers.

"You should see this," Miller said from the driver's seat. "Our guy just met someone. Woman. Sixties. White blazer."

Elena leaned forward. The woman handed him an envelope. He slipped something into her palm. A dead drop in broad daylight, surrounded by spectators, hidden in plain sight.

"Got it," she said, recording the timestamp.

The reality settled in her stomach like lead: this was it. Three years of her life, traded for grainy footage of betrayals she didn't care about, secrets that meant nothing to anyone except the shareholders who'd hired her firm. She thought about the life she'd postponed—trips never taken, relationships never pursued, the novel gathering dust on her hard drive. The person she wanted to be, waiting.

"You okay?" Miller asked.

Elena stared at the screen, at the crowd standing for the seventh-inning stretch. At the people who were actually *there*, not watching through cameras.

"I will be," she said.

When their shift ended at midnight, she didn't go home. She drove to a 24-hour diner and ordered coffee, pulled out her laptop, and typed two words: I RESIGN.

The baseball game would continue without her. The surveillance would go on. But tomorrow, she'd finally be in the stands instead of the parking lot. Alive. Present. Waiting for the first pitch.