Dead Cat in the Vitamin Aisle

Margaret found the cat in the pool at 3 AM, floating like a discarded thought. It wasn't her cat—it was the neighbor's tabby, stiff as forgotten regret. She should have been shocked, but instead she felt nothing. That's what three years of corporate bankruptcy work does to you. You become immune to death in all its forms.

Her husband David called from the hospital again. "The doctors say I need more vitamin D," he said, his voice thin as paper. "They're saying it might help. With the." He didn't finish. He never did.

"Bullshit," she said, staring at the cat's fur ripple in the chlorinated water. "They just want to sell you supplements."

"Maggie, please."

She hung up and walked through the empty house, her footsteps echoing like accusations. At forty-two, she'd become the thing she'd sworn against: a zombie in a designer suit, moving through meetings and mergers while her life rotted quietly in the corner. The cancer had eaten David's pancreas, but something else—something slower and more insidious—had been eating them both for years.

"The market bull runs indefinitely," her boss had said that afternoon, his teeth too white, his optimism predatory. She'd nodded and bought another round of drinks for clients who talked about leverage ratios while their marriages collapsed like overleveraged funds.

Margaret returned to the pool with the net. The cat's eyes were open, staring at something she couldn't see. She fished it out and laid it on the concrete, wondering how long it had been dead, how long the neighbor had been gone, how long she'd been not-noticing things.

Her phone buzzed. David's sister: "He's asking for you."

She texted back: "On my way."

In the vitamin aisle at CVS, she paused, staring at rows of promises in orange bottles. Vitamin D for hope. Vitamin C for immunity. Vitamin B for energy. She chose the D bottle, held it like a talisman, and wondered at the math of it all—how many milligrams of optimism it took to believe in anything anymore.

The checkout girl scanned the bottle and said, "Have a good night."

"You too," Margaret said, and believed it for exactly one second before the automatic doors slid open and she walked into the dark.