The Orange at the Pyramid's Peak

The interview room smelled of desperation and lemon polish. Maya sat across from a man whose face had the smooth, predatory certainty of a fox who'd already eaten and was now deciding whether to play with its prey.

"We call it the pyramid," he said, gesturing at the organizational chart on the wall. "Everyone starts at the base, working their way up. Or sideways. Or sometimes, out."

She'd been at her last firm for eight years—eight years of becoming something she didn't recognize. Her ex-husband had called it her zombie phase: waking up, moving through motions, collapsing, repeating. The divorce papers had been the first real thing she'd touched in months.

"What's the compensation structure?" she asked, though she already knew.

"Performance-based." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "We reward the hungry."

She thought of Marcus, who'd left journalism to sell supplements to college students. He sent her postcards from cheap motels—drawings of oranges he'd bought at roadside stands, each one labeled with the longitude and latitude where he'd finally stopped feeling dead inside.

The fox across from her leaned forward. "You're hesitating."

"I'm remembering something," she said.

"Oh?"

"A story about workers who built pyramids," she said. "How archaeologists found evidence that they were fed well. Treated like royalty, practically. It was a matter of national pride." She stood up. "But nobody tells you what happened after the capstone was laid."

Outside, she peeled an orange she'd bought from a street vendor. The juice stained her fingers. It was the sharpest thing she'd felt in years. She'd call Marcus. He was somewhere in Arizona, maybe. She'd tell him she was ready to stop building monuments to ghosts.

The pyramid behind her gleamed in the sunset, and for the first time in a long time, Maya walked away from something instead of toward it.