The Canary's Hat

The fedora lay on my entry table, its band stained with sweat from three years of corporate espionage. I hadn't worn it since leaving the Agency, but something about the morning's meeting had made me dig it out.

"You've been quiet lately," Lila said, not looking up from her prototype. She'd started wearing a red beret to the office—bold, unapologetic, everything I wasn't anymore. "Everything okay with the merger?"

"Fine." I avoided her eyes. "Just tired."

But that wasn't true. I was the one who'd been feeding the rival team details about her project. Not for money. For security. My boss had made it clear: help them, or join the next round of layoffs.

The package I'd left in the cafeteria trash can would make its way to them by noon. Technical specs, timeline, the breakthrough that would make Lila's career.

"Your dog looks happy today," she said, gesturing to my phone background.

"He's not mine," I said, though Buster was waiting at home, probably sleeping on my pillow. "I walk him for his owner. Mrs. Henderson. She's in hospice."

"Oh." Lila's face softened. "That's kind of you."

Kind. The word stung. I was about to destroy her work.

That evening, Buster greeted me with his usual enthusiasm, his tail thumping against the doorframe. I sank onto the floor, letting him lick my face, and he didn't care that I'd spent the day being someone else. He didn't care about the hat in my hand or what it represented.

"I don't know if I can keep doing this," I told him. Buster whined, nudging my hand with his wet nose.

The hat felt heavy, like it was pulling me backward into a life I'd sworn I'd left. I set it on the floor, watched Buster investigate it with gentle curiosity.

"You're better than this," he seemed to say.

I picked up my phone and dialed Lila. "I need to tell you something."