The Glass Bowl

The corporate pyramid rose forty floors above Chicago, each tier a stratum of diminishing authority. Sarah had climbed to level thirty-two before understanding that the view from the top wasn't clearer—it just made the people below look like insects.

"They're running another pool," Marcus said, leaning against her doorframe. "Betting on who gets cut in the restructuring."

Sarah swiveled her chair. The restructuring—euphemism for bloodletting. "What are the odds?"

"You're three to one. Guy in accounting thinks you're too expensive to keep."

She laughed, hollow sound. "He's not wrong."

That evening, Sarah found herself at a hotel bar, watching a massive aquarium where a single goldfish patrolled the perimeter, endless laps in a prison of glass. The fish would pause, bump its nose against the boundary, then turn and begin again. Someone had probably named it Luck or Freedom or some other cruel joke.

"Running in circles," a man beside her observed. He was older, expensive suit, eyes that had seen too many restructurings. "We're all doing it. Just some tanks are bigger."

He ordered her a drink. They talked about the lies we tell ourselves—that the next promotion will fix everything, that security exists, that we're not swimming in glass bowls waiting for someone to decide we've outgrown our utility.

"I used to think," Sarah said, watching the goldfish turn again, "that if I climbed high enough, I'd be the one looking down."

"Turns out," he said, "the air's just thinner up there. Harder to breathe."

She didn't go into work the next day. Or the day after. The betting pool continued without her. Somewhere, a goldfish kept swimming, believing in forward motion, and Sarah finally understood that staying still was its own kind of escape.