Palms in the Dead Pool

Margaret traced the lifeline on Elias's hand, her fingers grazing the rough skin of his palm. The office betting pool had him at three-to-one odds for the next layoff round.

"You're going to live to eighty," she lied.

Elias laughed hollowy. They both knew she wasn't a palm reader—just a payroll processor who'd learned to read people like spreadsheets. But the zombie walks between cubicles had grown exhausting. Everyone moved through the fluorescent-lit maze with dead eyes, performing the motions of living while waiting for the axe to fall.

The pool sat on the breakroom table: $450 in cash, names scrawled on index cards, odds penciled beside them. Margaret had created it three months ago when the first whispers of restructuring began. It was supposed to be dark humor, workplace solidarity against the corporate machine. Now it felt like betting on which limb to amputate first.

Elias covered her hand with his free one. "What about my love line?"

She hesitated. They'd been dancing around each other for months—drinks after work, texts that lasted too long, the way he looked at her across meetings. But timing had never been right. Then again, timing was never right when you were living paycheck to paycheck, terrified of becoming another statistic.

"It's complicated," she said softly.

Outside, thunder rumbled. The building's HVAC system died, leaving them in sudden silence. In that moment, something shifted. Maybe it was the desperation of two people who'd forgotten how to feel alive. Maybe it was simply that some connections are stronger than fear.

Elias leaned in. His palm was warm against hers.

The next morning, Margaret removed the pool from the breakroom table. She'd collect the money herself, give it back when this was over. Some things mattered more than odds.