The Liability Pool

Mara stared at the liability spreadsheet while her Golden Retriever, Buster, nudged her hand with that desperate Please, I haven't eaten in five minutes look he'd perfected. She should have been at the office hours ago, finalizing the quarterly risk assessment for the insurance company's newest product—a 'pooled responsibility' policy that was basically legal gambling disguised as corporate innovation.

Instead, she was here, watching David's LinkedIn profile load on her phone. David, who'd been her work spouse for six years. David, who'd suggested she 'take one for the team' when their boss needed someone to shoulder the blame for the data breach last quarter. David, whose wife had called her yesterday in tears, asking if Mara knew why David had emptied their joint savings account.

The backyard pool was green with algae. She kept meaning to drain it, but the effort required felt symbolic somehow. Better to let it rot than pretend to care about appearances.

Buster whined, scratching at the back door. Funny how loyal dogs were. How they'd sit by your side through unemployment, divorce, existential crises, yet David—that so-called friend—had been the first to volunteer her for the sacrificial altar when HR came looking for someone to terminate.

Her phone buzzed. A group chat notification: 'Liability Pool Cleanup Crew'—the four of them who'd been 'restructured' last month. Another message about industry contacts, someone hiring. Not David's number. David was still there, still climbing, still collecting bonuses from the policies she'd helped design.

She stood up, bones cracking. Buster trotted beside her to the patio door. The pool water rippled in the wind, thick and opaque as neglected promises. At least she knew where she stood now. At least Buster would never sell her out to save his own career.

Some days, she thought, that was the only kind of loyalty left in this world.