The Last Orange

Marcus had been feeding information to management for six months before I noticed. The signs were there—the way his eyes lingered on my screen during meetings, how he always arrived at the coffee machine seconds after I'd mentioned something sensitive over the phone. I'd been working with him for seven years. We'd celebrated promotions together, mourned failed projects over drinks, helped each other move apartments. Now I understood: Marcus was a corporate spy, and I was his assignment.

I found out on a Tuesday, the same day my golden retriever, Buster, was diagnosed with lymphoma. The vet's voice was gentle, clinical. She gave him six months, maybe a year if we were lucky. I sat in the exam room, my hand resting on Buster's head, his coarse fur beneath my palm, and thought about how the universe sometimes delivers all its blows at once.

At home that evening, I peeled an orange. The scent was sharp, clean, honest—everything my job wasn't anymore. Buster watched me from his bed, his dark eyes following my hands. He didn't know about Marcus. He didn't know about the corporate restructuring that would eliminate half our department. He just knew he was sick, and that I was sad, and that he loved me anyway.

The next morning, Marcus cornered me in the breakroom. "Heard about your dog," he said, his voice thick with manufactured concern. "That's rough, man." His palm pressed against my shoulder, warm and heavy. I wanted to shove him away. Instead, I nodded, said thank you, watched him walk back to his desk where he'd no doubt draft another report about my emotional instability, my distraction, my vulnerability.

Our division director called us all in at 3 PM. The announcement was exactly what Marcus had predicted three weeks earlier over drinks—drinks I'd paid for, thinking we were friends. The corporate bull had finally arrived: layoffs, restructuring, "strategic realignment." As names were read, I caught Marcus's eye. He looked away.

That weekend, I took Buster to the beach one last time. He moved slowly, his gray muzzle lifted to the salt air. I ate an orange while he rested in the sand, the juice sticky on my fingers. The ocean stretched before us, vast and indifferent. I thought about loyalty—how freely we give it, how rarely it's returned. How Buster would die loving me, while Marcus would live having traded my trust for a temporary advantage that wouldn't save him when the next round came.

On Monday, I cleaned out my desk. Marcus watched from his cubicle, his expression unreadable. I left the orange peel on my keyboard—a small, petty gesture, but sometimes small things are all we have. Buster was waiting at home, and that was enough.