Seventh Inning Stretch

Elena sat three rows back behind home plate, the baseball cap pulled low over eyes that had once memorized the microexpressions of three different prime ministers. The curveball broke outside, and the crowd groaned in unison—a collective disappointment she hadn't felt since the Agency burned her four years ago.

The man beside her, David from accounting, offered her a bag of spinach dip with pita chips. "You've got something," he said, gesturing to his own teeth.

She excused herself to the restroom, where she stared at her reflection in the mirror. A piece of spinach wedged between her incisors. The woman staring back was someone she barely recognized: soft edges, comfortable clothes, a life that fit like borrowed clothing. Once, she'd been the one who noticed things—the nervous tic, the too-casual glance, the lie hidden in a smile. Now she was the one with spinach in her teeth, missing the obvious.

When she returned, David was watching a player adjust his cup. "You think he knows we're all watching him?" David asked, not looking at her. "Every move, scrutinized."

Elena thought about the bugs she'd planted, the cameras she'd hidden, the lives she'd dismantled without ever learning the names of the people inside them. "Some people get used to being watched," she said. "Some people never do."

"You talk like you know," he said, turning to her. His gaze was sharper than she'd given him credit for.

She laughed, and it sounded almost genuine. "I read a lot of spy novels. They all say the same thing: you can take the person out of the lie, but you can't take the lie out of the person."

The inning ended. The organist played "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." David stood, stretching, and she stood with him. His hand brushed hers—accidental, electric, exactly the kind of moment she used to manufacture. But this wasn't manufactured. This was something she'd never had in her old life: something real that might become something more, or might not, and either way was terrifying.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

She watched the baseball arc toward the outfield, a perfect white sphere against the darkening sky. "I'm thinking I might let myself want this," she said, and for the first time in years, it wasn't a cover story.