Foxes at the Water's Edge

The corporate pyramid stretched above us, twenty stories of glass and steel reflecting the dying orange sun. I stood by the pool's edge, nursing my third gin and tonic, watching the ripples distort my reflection.

"You're wearing that hat again," Sarah said, sliding onto the lounge chair beside me. "The one you wore to your interview."

I adjusted the brim. "Superstition. Reminds me of when I had everything to prove."

"Still proving yourself?" she asked, not unkindly.

"Always."

We were at the company retreat—mandatory, expenses paid, terrifyingly transparent. The betting pool on who'd be first to go had reached three thousand dollars. I'd put five hundred on myself. Sarah had put two hundred on me too, which was either loyalty or a hedge against her own survival.

"The restructuring announcement comes Monday," she said, staring at the water. "My source says three departments gone."

"Everyone has a source."

"Mine is sleeping with the CFO."

I laughed. "That's not a source, that's a liability."

A fox darted through the manicured gardens beyond the pool—scrawny, opportunistic, beautiful in its desperation. It paused at the edge of the light, watching us.

"See him?" I pointed. "That's us. Scavenging at the edges while the lions feed."

"We're not scavengers," she said sharply. "We worked for this."

"Did we?" I finished my drink. "Or did we just learn which questions not to ask?"

The orange glow had faded to purple. The betting pool swirled in my head. I could take the buyout, start over. But at forty-two, starting over meant admitting the last twenty years had been a pyramid scheme of my own making.

Sarah's phone buzzed. She read the message, face unreadable.

"What?" I asked.

"The CFO. He says the announcement is delayed. New information needed."

The fox vanished into the darkness. I adjusted my hat, suddenly grateful for its familiar weight. We'd survive another round—foxes always did. But I wasn't sure winning was the same thing as living.