The Corporate Palm Reader

The Wednesday betting pool had reached $473. The terms: which senior VP would be the first to crack during the Q3 audit.

"I've got Morrison," Elena said, tracing the condensation on her gin and tonic. "He hasn't slept since the merger. He's practically a zombie already."

I laughed, but the sound died in my throat. Three years ago, that had been me—walking through the office at 2 AM, eyes glazed, soul eroding by the hour. The corporate pyramid demanded its sacrifices, and I'd nearly given it everything.

"Your turn," she said, pushing my hand toward the woman in the flowing purple skirt who'd set up shop near the hotel pool. The fortune teller with the mismatched eyes.

"I don't believe in this."

"Exactly. It's just fun."

The woman took my hand, her fingers rough and warm. She studied my palm for a long time, longer than she had Elena's. The desert wind rustled the palm trees around us, carrying the scent of chlorine and expensive sunscreen.

"You climbed high," the woman said finally. "But the higher you go, the thinner the air. You forgot why you started climbing."

Something cracked open in my chest. The audit deadline, the promotion I'd been killing myself for, the pool that reduced my colleagues to gambling chips—it all suddenly felt absurd.

"What do you see?" Elena asked, leaning in.

"A crossroads," the woman said, still holding my gaze. "Some paths lead up. Some lead away."

I pulled my hand back gently. The pool water sparkled blue and artificial in the sunset, and somewhere beyond the hotel walls, real life was happening.

"I'm out of the pool," I said.

Elena blinked. "What?"

"The betting pool. Cancel my entry. And—I think I'm going to take that sabbatical."

The fortune teller smiled, almost imperceptibly, and closed her hand around the twenty-dollar bill Elena pressed into it.

Some omens you don't need palms to read.