Fifth Inning Surveillance

The cat—Marcel, according to the collar I'd glimpsed three weeks ago—sat on the fire escape every Tuesday at 7 PM, watching me through the window like he knew things. It was disconcerting, being surveilled by a creature who slept sixteen hours a day and licked himself clean.

I adjusted my earpiece as the baseball game crackled through—bottom of the fifth, Orioles down by three. My target, Viktor, was in the pyramid-shaped building across the street, the corporate headquarters of Orion Corp. They called it the Pyramid because all the power consolidated at the top, while the rest of us—the base—supported things we'd never see or understand.

Viktor was selling secrets. I was collecting evidence. We were both just trying to survive in a city where orange smog choked the sunset and rent ate dreams before breakfast.

"Baseball makes no sense," Sarah had said the night she left. "Men standing around, waiting for something to happen." She'd packed an orange suitcase—her mother's, bright as a traffic cone—against my gray sofa. "That's us, Jack. Just waiting."

Marcel the cat meowed, a guttural sound that vibrated through the glass. I'd started leaving treats for him last week. Some spy I was—compromised by a ten-pound furball who'd probably sell my secrets for a can of tuna.

Viktor appeared at his window, phone pressed to his ear. I raised my camera. The Orioles' broadcaster announced a double play—the rare moment when everything aligned, when the pieces fell into place perfectly, when someone actually won.

But real life wasn't baseball. In real life, there were no clear winners, just people making choices that rippled outward, colliding with other people's choices, until everything was chaos and compromise.

Sarah's orange suitcase had been gone for three months. The cat had been there for three weeks. I'd been watching Viktor for seven days. Tomorrow, I'd turn in the photos. Viktor would lose everything—his pension, his reputation, maybe his family.

Marcel licked his paw, slow and deliberate. Behind me, the Orioles scored. Through my lens, Viktor laughed at something on his phone, head tilted back, completely unaware that the bottom of the fifth was about to end.

I lowered the camera. The cat watched me. For the first time in three weeks, I understood exactly what he was thinking: we were all just waiting for something to happen, and none of us would win.