The Pyramid Scheme

Elena swallowed her **vitamin** D supplement with cold coffee—her doctor said she was deficient, but she knew the real deficiency was sunlight, having spent three years climbing the corporate **pyramid** from analyst to senior director. The corner office awaited, one more promotion away, though she'd stopped asking herself if she actually wanted it.

"You coming to **padel** tonight?" Marco asked, leaning against her doorframe. He was twenty-eight, brilliant, and entirely too comfortable with his place three rungs below her on the org chart. They'd been playing weekly since summer, the court becoming neutral ground where titles dissolved.

"Can't," she said, without looking up from the restructuring proposal. "Town hall at five."

"Your father's funeral was three days ago, Elena. The work will be there tomorrow."

Her fingers froze over the keyboard. Her father had loved **baseball**—coached her teams through middle school until she'd discovered she preferred reading the game to playing it. He'd kept every trophy, every team photo, every unevenly folded jersey in boxes she'd been too afraid to open since his death last week. The game had been their language, the way he'd said *I love you* without ever having to speak the words.

"The restructuring eliminates twelve positions," she said quietly. "Including mine if I don't make the case for this department."

"So you'll trade your life for a job that would replace you in a week?" Marco's voice softened. "Come play. Then we'll get tacos. You haven't eaten since yesterday."

She looked at him—really looked—at the concern in his eyes, the way he didn't flinch from her grief or her ambition. The vitamin bottle sat on her desk, a daily reminder that she was trying to keep herself alive while forgetting how to live.

"Tacos first," she said. "Then you're going down."

"Deal." He grinned. "But just so you know—I've been practicing my serve."

She saved her presentation and closed her laptop. The pyramid would still be there tomorrow. The vitamins could wait. And somewhere in a box in her closet, her father's old baseball glove was waiting to be held again.