Riddle of the Gray

I became a corporate spy by accident. Sixteen years of gathering intelligence on competitors, and I'd forgotten how to be honest with myself.

The deposition was scheduled for noon. I walked past the Sphinx replica on my building's lobby floor—some pretentious art acquisition from 2019—and wondered if the ancient riddle keeper would understand my particular midlife crisis. What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening? The answer was supposed to be man. But these days, I felt like I was dragging five.

My hair had started abandoning ship six months ago. I found gray strands on my pillow like fallen soldiers. Each one carried the same question: what are you doing with your life?

Outside, a stray dog watched me from across the street. A golden retriever mix with matted fur and knowing eyes. We'd developed a routine. I'd buy coffee; he'd stare. Some days, that felt like the most honest relationship I had.

"You're gonna lose your soul, Elena told me last night." She was right. I already had. Piece by piece, trade secret by trade secret, I'd sold it for a corner office and a retirement plan that felt increasingly theoretical.

The dog trotted over as I fumbled for my keys. He sat and regarded me with sphinx-like patience. There was a question in his eyes, or maybe I was projecting. Everyone wanted something from me. The firm. The competitors I was spying on. Elena. Even this damn dog.

I knelt and scratched behind his ears. His fur was coarse, matted with city dirt. He leaned into my hand, and for the first time in months, something felt real.

"You got a name?" I asked.

He thumped his tail against the pavement.

"Yeah," I said. "Me neither."

I called in sick. The deposition could wait. The secrets could wait. I walked to the vet clinic three blocks away, the dog beside me, and for the first time in sixteen years, I didn't look over my shoulder.