The Palm Reader's Bet

The corporate retreat was Everything's idea—a desperate attempt to revive morale among the walking dead of our sales department. They shuffled from seminar to seminar, eyes glazed, responding to motivational speakers with guttural noises that made them less like employees and more like zombies from a B-movie filmed in a weekend.

I stood by the infinity pool, nursing my third gin and tonic, watching them. That's when Elena approached—our top performer, the one person whose light hadn't dimmed despite the grind.

"You're spying again," she said, sliding onto the stool beside me.

"Observing. There's a difference."

"Same thing when you work in sales." She signaled the bartender. "So, how much is in the pool this quarter?"

The betting pool—our department's dark little secret. Who'd burn out first. Who'd sleep with the boss. Who'd finally snap and throw a printer through a window.

"Three grand," I said. "I put fifty on Miller from accounting. He's been staring at the same spreadsheet for six days."

Elena laughed, then grew quiet. She reached across, took my hand, and examined my palm like she'd seen something I hadn't.

"You know what I see?" she whispered. "Someone who's been dead inside longer than any of them."

Her thumb traced my lifeline, and I felt something crack open—something I'd sealed shut years ago when I realized survival meant not feeling too much.

"And?" I managed.

"And," she said, leaning closer, "I think you might be worth saving."

Behind us, a motivational speaker shouted something about LIMITLESS POTENTIAL. A zombie in a blazer applauded mechanically. Elena's hand was still in mine, her skin warm against the cooling evening air, and for the first time in years, I didn't want to be anywhere else.

"Raise you to another gin," I said.

She smiled. "Make it two. I think we're going to be here a while."