The Animal Inside

The corporate pyramid meeting had drained Elena completely—another three hours of executives demonstrating how little they knew about the actual work. She'd sat there mute, a good dog waiting for scraps of validation that never came. Now she stood at the hotel pool's edge at midnight, the water undisturbed and black as onyx.

A rustle in the landscaping made her turn. A fox—lean, russet, impossibly alert—trotted along the perimeter fence, paused to watch her with unconcerned yellow eyes, then vanished into the darkness.

"Lucky bastard," she whispered.

She'd owned a dog once. Max had died two months ago, twelve years of unconditional devotion, and she'd spent every day since wondering what he'd actually gotten from the bargain. What had she given him besides the same kibble and a small fenced yard? What had anyone given her besides the same.

"Beautiful night to consider drowning your career," said a voice behind her.

She turned to find David from accounting, holding two glass bottles of beer from the mini-bar. He set one on the table beside her lounge chair.

"I'm considering drowning everything," she said, but accepted the beer.

"The pyramid scheme finally getting to you?" David sat on the adjacent chair, tie undone, looking like someone who'd stopped pretending years ago. "We're all climbing it, but I've never met anyone at the top who seemed happy to be there."

"I saw a fox just now."

"They come down from the hills at night. Scavengers. Smart, though. They don't build pyramids."

"They don't wait for scraps either."

"No," David said. "They don't."

The pool lights flickered on—timer activated, turning the black water blue-green and impossibly deep. Something in Elena's chest shifted, like a plate tectonic, slow and irreversible.

"My dog Max," she said quietly. "He had more joy in one tail-wag than I've had in my entire tenure at that company. And I was the one who was supposed to be free."

"What are you going to do about it?"

She looked toward where the fox had disappeared, then at the pyramid-shaped hotel rising above them, then at David's patient, waiting eyes.

"I'm going to drink this beer," she said. "Then tomorrow morning, I'm going to walk into that pyramid and tell them exactly what it's worth."

David smiled, lifted his bottle. "To the foxes, then. The ones who refuse to be domesticated."

They clinked glass, and somewhere in the darkness beyond the pool's glow, a fox called out—short, sharp, wild.