The Last Ascent

The Giza plateau sweltered at forty degrees, but Marcus stood at the base of the Great Pyramid in a wool suit, sweating through another corporate leadership retreat. Beside him, his director Tom—nicknamed 'The Bull' for his bullish approach to negotiations and his tendency to charge headfirst into deals—held court with three junior executives. They laughed at his jokes, nodded at his platitudes about synergy and disruption. Marcus had stopped laughing three years ago.

His phone buzzed. Sarah had sent a photo of Buster, their aging golden retriever, lying on Marcus's side of the bed. The dog's muzzle had gone white around the eyes, same as Marcus's temples. She'd written: 'He waited up for you again.'

'You coming, Marcus?' Tom called, already halfway up the stone steps of the ancient pyramid. 'Team building doesn't happen by itself.'

Marcus thought about the corporate pyramid he'd spent twenty years climbing—each level requiring another sacrifice: weekends, his daughter's soccer games, his marriage, which now existed in polite text messages and separate bedrooms. He'd reached the vice presidency level, thin air where he could finally see everything he'd lost.

He looked at his phone again. The photo of Buster. The dog who still greeted him with tail wags even when Marcus came home at midnight, smelling of scotch and compromise. Buster who loved him without conditions, without asking what he'd achieved that quarter.

'Marcus?' Tom's voice carried genuine irritation now.

Marcus turned away from the pyramid. He loosened his tie, the first button he'd undone on company time in two decades. 'Actually,' he said, already walking toward the transport, 'I think I'm done climbing.'

Tom's face reddened. 'You're walking out on the retreat? On your career?'

Marcus thought of Buster waiting at home. He thought of Sarah, still in his contact list under 'Wife' though neither had used that word with meaning in years. 'No,' he said. 'Just climbing down.'