Pyramids of Memory

The baseball card sat on his dashboard, curled at the edges like his own patience. Elias fingered the corner—1986, Topps, some kid whose name he'd forgotten but whose face had haunted forty years of locker rooms and corner offices. He should be at his daughter's graduation. Instead, he sat in his car, watching the assholes from regional management file into the Marriott conference center like cattle to slaughter.

His phone litened again. Claire. 'Are you coming?'

Elias thumbed it off. Tomorrow he'd apologize. Tomorrow he'd explain that her stepfather—slick-haired Greg, with his financial planner smile and his goddamn pyramid schemes about cryptocurrency and essential oils—didn't deserve to witness this moment. That it should be her real father, even if her real father was currently parked outside a Holiday Inn Express, nursing whiskey from a travel mug and contemplating every mistake that had led him here.

The passenger door opened. A woman slid in, smelling of expensive perfume and bad choices.

"You're the fox in the henhouse," she said, extending a hand. "Janet. HR."

He knew who she was. Everyone knew Janet—thirty-five, sharp as broken glass, currently sleeping her way through the C-suite like it was a buffet.

"Elias. Sales."

"They're in there discussing the restructuring," she said, gesturing toward the hotel. "Your name came up. They called it 'optimizing the workforce.' I call it what it is: bullshit."

He laughed bitterly. "Corporate bull. My favorite flavor."

"I could get you the files," she said quietly. "The real numbers. The ones they're hiding from the board."

"Why?"

"Because my father was a salesman too," she said, staring at the baseball card on his dashboard. "He missed my graduation for a conference in Phoenix. He came home with a plaque and a hangover. I haven't spoken to him in seven years."

Elias looked at her—really looked at her. Behind the carefully applied makeup and the predatory smile, he saw something familiar. The same hollowed-out expression that stared back at him in hotel mirrors at 2 AM.

"You should go," she said. "To the graduation. Before it's too late."

He started the car. Janet was right. Greg with his pyramids and his oils would take his daughter's arm for the father-daughter dance. He'd make a speech about bright futures and new chapters. And years from now, his daughter would remember.

Elias backed out of the parking spot, baseball card still on the dashboard, whispering the names of men he'd once admired. It wasn't too late. Not yet.