The Betting Pool

The email landed at 4:17 PM, same as always. Subject: **W**hen **W**ill **W**erner **W**alk. Today's pot: $847.

Maya stared at her screen, the fluorescent hum of the office grating against her headache. Three years she'd worked under Werner—his gruff **bull**-in-a-china-shop management style, his red face during quarterly reviews, the way he'd barge into meetings like he owned not just the company but everyone's time. And for three years, she and twelve other assistants had maintained the pool, betting on when he'd finally implode.

This time felt different though. The rumors about restructuring. Werner's sudden silence during yesterday's call. The way Cheryl from HR kept looking at him with something uncomfortably close to pity.

Maya pushed back from her desk and made her way to the building's rooftop deck. The **pool** glittered below—abandoned, leaf-strewn, the complex's amenity nobody used anymore. She leaned against the railing, watching **water** cascade from the fountain that still ran, pointlessly decorative.

"He's not going to walk," she said aloud. "He's going to be pushed."

Her phone buzzed. Werner's name.

"Maya. My office. Now."

The elevator ride felt endless. When she stepped inside, Werner wasn't at his desk. He stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching the city darken.

"They offered me the package," he said without turning. "Thirty years, and they offered me a package."

Maya remained silent. This was the first time she'd seen him as anything other than a force of nature.

"My wife," he continued, "she keeps asking why I don't retire. Says I've got enough. But what would I do with myself?" He turned, and Maya saw something she'd never expected: fear. "I'm sixty-four, Maya. This place... it's all I know."

The words hung between them, uncomfortable and raw.

"You could take the package," she found herself saying. "Start over."

Werner laughed, short and bitter. "At sixty-four? In this economy? No. I'll fight it."

But the fight had gone out of his voice. Whatever **bull** had charged through hallways and meetings had finally stalled.

Maya walked back to her desk and opened the betting pool email. She typed a single date: tomorrow.

Then she deleted it, closed her laptop, and went home early.