The Goldfish in the Storm

Maya pressed her forehead against the cold glass of her hotel room window, watching the storm roll over Seattle. Thirty-seven years old and she was still running—always running—from one city to the next, one corporate secret to the next, stealing trade secrets for a defense contractor that would replace her without hesitation if she slipped.

A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating the miserable goldfish bowl on the nightstand. Its sole inhabitant, a regrettable purchase from a moment of loneliness three cities ago, drifted in circles. Maya sometimes envied that fish. It had no conscience. It didn't wake up at 3 AM remembering the face of the researcher whose life's work she'd just stolen, didn't taste bile when she thought about the chemotherapy drug her last heist had delayed by two years.

She'd started as a spy for idealistic reasons, believed she was exposing corruption, protecting the little guy. Now she couldn't remember what conviction felt like. The money was good. The work was never done.

Her phone buzzed. Another target. Another person whose life she'd methodically dismantle, photograph, document, and package for corporate consumption. She'd become so good at it that she sometimes forgot she was the villain in other people's stories.

The goldfish rose to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition. Maya had read somewhere that fish had three-second memories, that they lived in an eternal present. What she wouldn't give for three seconds of forgetting.

Lightning struck closer now, and for a moment she considered just walking out—into the storm, into whatever came next. Instead, she opened her laptop. The mission dossier loaded. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Somewhere in Chicago, a stranger had no idea his life was about to become collateral damage in someone else's profit margin.

The fish swam another circle. Maya began to type.