Dead Signal

The spinach sat wilting on Marcus's plate, a miniature grave of something that had once been vibrant. Across from him, Elena picked at her salad with mechanical precision, her eyes fixed on the television mounted above the bar. Cable news flickered—another scandal, another indictment, the endless scroll of American decline.

'You're doing it again,' Marcus said, not looking up from his wine.

'What?'

'The zombie thing. You're here, but you're not here.' It had been six months since the promotion, since Elena had started working corporate intelligence for the defense contractor. She'd come home each night a little less present, her consciousness apparently uploaded to some secure server where Marcus couldn't follow.

She finally looked at him. 'I'm tired, Marc. Some of us have actual responsibilities.'

'My responsibilities don't require me to spy on environmental groups, Elena. That's not a job. That's—'

'Security,' she snapped. 'National security. You think you're so morally pure with your little nonprofit salary?' She signaled the waiter for another drink. 'At least I can afford this meal.'

Marcus felt something ancient and calcified crack in his chest. They'd had this argument a dozen times, each iteration more circular than the last. He reached across the table, meaning to touch her hand, but stopped midway. The space between their fingers felt charged, electric, the exposed cable of a bridge that had burned through too many times.

'I saw the files,' he said quietly.

Elena's fork froze halfway to her mouth. 'What?'

'The Sierra Club operation. The bribes to the regulator. I know what you're actually doing.' He'd found the documents on her laptop three nights ago, sleeplessness driving him to violate the one boundary they'd never discussed. 'You're not protecting national security. You're protecting stock prices.'

The bar noise seemed to recede. For the first time in months, Elena was fully present, fully alive—if only through shock and rage.

'You went through my computer?' She hissed it, low and dangerous. 'That's a federal offense, Marcus. Do you have any idea what you've—'

'I know that I can't do this anymore.' He stood up, leaving his uneaten dinner. 'I'll be at the Mercer apartment. Don't come there until you figure out who you're working for.'

He walked out into the cold November air, the city's lights blurring through unshed tears. Behind him, through the plate glass window, he could see Elena still sitting at the table, illuminated by the blue glow of the television, caught in that suspended state between the living and the dead—zombie-still, waiting for instructions that would never come.