The Pyramid of Empty Desks

The termination pool had reached $4,200 by the time Elena's name was called.

She walked past the pyramid of empty desks—her department reduced to a triangle of survivors—and gathered her box of belongings. The corporate hierarchy had finally collapsed inward, consuming itself like a starving animal, and she'd been digested without ceremony.

That's when she saw the cat in the courtyard.

A ragged orange thing, it sat by the reflecting pool, watching her with ancient, predatory eyes. Something about its gaze arrested her—calculating, patient, the stare of a small god.

You're a fox in cat's clothing, she thought, setting down her box.

The cat approached, sniffed her hand with deliberate skepticism, then allowed a single stroke before retreating to the shadows beneath the pyramid of the Luxor hotel across the street.

Elena had spent fifteen years climbing pyramids that turned out to be tombs. She'd outfoxed competitors and been outfoxed in turn, collected accolades that now felt as insubstantial as smoke. But this creature—this small, fierce philosopher with matted fur—seemed to know something she'd forgotten: survival isn't about structures or ladders or gold stars.

Her phone buzzed. Mark, texting from inside: Did you hear about Linda?

Elena typed back: I'm by the pool. There's a cat.

Are you okay?

No. Yes.

She watched the ripples spread across the water, concentric circles like the years she'd given to strangers. The cat settled beside her, warm and solid and utterly uninterested in her résumé. Across the pool, the Las Vegas lights flickered on, artificial stars burning against a darkening sky.

For the first time in a decade, Elena didn't know where she was going. She let the cat curl into her lap and watched the pyramid turn gold in the sunset, surprisingly light, as if she might float away.