The Pyramid Scheme

Maya smoothed her blouse in the hotel bathroom mirror, checking for spinach in her teeth—again. The corporate retreat in Cancun was supposed to be celebratory, but her stomach had been in knots since Thursday's email about the new product launch.

Down at the pool, David from marketing held court with a mojito in one hand and his iPhone in the other, live-tweeting his own brilliance. He was a bull of a man, loud and impossible to ignore, exactly the kind of energy that had driven their startup's valuation to that ridiculous pyramid-shaped growth chart on the investor deck.

"You coming to the gala?" David called as she walked past. "Don't tell me you're still worried about the fine print."

Maya forced a smile. "Just need some air."

In her room, the hotel's complimentary goldfish circled its bowl in endless loops, its memory supposedly only three seconds long. She envied it sometimes—that blissful forgetting, starting fresh every moment. Instead, she carried every compromise, every justification, every incremental slide toward something she no longer recognized.

The app they were launching tomorrow promised to "revolutionize" how teenagers experienced social media. What the deck didn't show: the algorithm was designed to maximize addictive behavior. The kids were the product now.

Her phone buzzed—another Slack notification from the product team. Everything was moving forward with or without her.

Maya pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the balcony door. She'd signed the equity agreement three years ago, back when they were going to change the world. Now she was just another tier in the pyramid, and somewhere beneath her, thousands of teenagers were about to become the newest foundation.

The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition. Maybe three seconds of memory wasn't a defect. Maybe it was mercy.

Maya opened her laptop and began drafting her resignation letter.