The Dead Pool

Elena found the spreadsheet on a Tuesday, hidden in a subfolder of the shared drive: 'Project Bear Pool.' The winner took home eight hundred dollars—petty cash to some, a month's groceries to her. The names were all there: marketing, accounting, the guys from IT who always made coffee when she walked by.

They weren't betting on deadlines. They were betting on her.

Her stomach dropped as she scrolled through the entries. Schmidt picked 'crying in the bathroom' for next Thursday. Lopez had money on 'quiet resignation before Labor Day.' Someone named 'JS'—five hundred dollars on 'mental breakdown in the conference room, July 12.'

JS. Jamie from the third floor. The one who brought her tea when her mother died. The one she'd trusted with her medication changes, her therapy schedule, the late nights when the insomnia made everything feel sharp and dangerous. Jamie, who'd held her while she sobbed in the parking garage that time the pressure felt like a physical weight sitting on her chest.

Bear it, the therapist said. You're stronger than you think. Bear it until it breaks you, she meant.

Elena walked to Jamie's desk. Her friend was laughing with Lopez about something, shoulders loose, the picture of easy camaraderie. When she saw Elena, the laugh died midway through. "Lunch?" she asked, standing up too quickly. "We could—"

"Five hundred dollars," Elena said quietly. People were starting to look. "That's what my breakdown is worth to you."

Jamie's face went through about five years of aging in thirty seconds. The office hummed around them—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the dull roar of people pretending to work while watching the train wreck unfold. Schmidt was already taking photos with his phone.

"It wasn't like that," Jamie whispered. "We're all stressed, we just needed—"

"To bet on when I'd break?" Elena said. "Like I'm a cockfight? Like I'm some kind of entertainment for you people?"

She looked around the room. All those friendly faces turned away, suddenly very interested in their monitors. The pool had drained, and all that was left was the ugly truth at the bottom: they were sharks, and she was the chum.

"I'm not a bear," she said, turning toward the exit. "And this isn't a joke."

Behind her, Jamie was saying her name. Behind her, Lopez was probably calculating his new odds. Elena kept walking. Some things, once seen, couldn't be unseen. Some bonds, once broken, couldn't be mended. The money was the least of it—the real loss sat cold and heavy in her chest, where something like friendship used to be.