Lines in the Water

The betting pool sat on Elena's desk, a printed spreadsheet with names and numbers, casual as a lunch menu. But beneath each prediction lay a wager on someone's survival—whose department would be axed in the merger, whose mortgage would go unpaid, whose life would unravel first.

"Five bucks says Jason's team goes first," Marcus said, leaning against her cubicle wall. He'd been her friend since they were twenty-two, sharing after-work drinks and dating disasters, standing beside her at her mother's funeral. Now he smiled with that practiced warmth, his palm resting on her desk like he owned the space.

Elena looked at his hand, the fingers relaxed, confident. She remembered seeing those hands gesture animatedly as he described his promotion plans three months ago—the promotion that required eliminating her division.

"You already know the answer," she said quietly.

Marcus's smile faltered. "It's just office politics, El. Nothing personal."

"I was at your wedding," she said. "I held your hair back when you had food poisoning at your bachelor party. I recommended you for this job."

"And I appreciate that, really—"

"Do you?" She stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. "Because I think you appreciate it about as much as you appreciate the irony of what you've become."

He blinked, confused. Then followed her gaze to the betting pool.

His name was at the top.

Under "Predicted Casualties," he'd written: "Elena's entire team."

Under "Confidence Level," he'd circled "100%."

The office around them continued humming—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, lives intersecting and separating in invisible ways. Somewhere, a pool of coffee rippled as someone dropped a stirrer. Somewhere, someone's palm pressed against a window, watching clouds drift.

Marcus opened his mouth, closed it. The lines in his forehead deepened.

"The merger decision," he said finally, "was made weeks ago. I just... I didn't want to worry you."

"You didn't want to worry me," Elena repeated. "Or you didn't want me to hate you?"

"Does it matter?"

She looked at the betting pool again, at all the names and predictions, the way they'd turned real human suffering into a game. Then she looked at Marcus—at the friend she'd spent twelve years building memories with, who had dismantled their friendship in the time it took to sign a memo.

"No," she said, picking up the spreadsheet. "I suppose it doesn't matter."

She walked to the shredder without looking back.