The Wellness Check

The vitamin D supplement sat on Mara's tongue like a lie she refused to swallow. Her doctor had prescribed them after her blood work came back — a consequence, he'd said gently, of spending fourteen hours a day under fluorescent lights instead of sunlight. She'd laughed at the appointment, a dry brittle sound, because what was she supposed to do? Quit her job at forty-three and start taking beach vacations?

Clara called her a friend, though Mara had learned the hard way that Clara's friendship operated on a transactional basis. Clara was the kind of person who invited you to dinner only to ask if you'd heard about the upcoming layoffs. Who texted at 11 PM on a Tuesday: "Did you see Greg's email? Something's coming."

Now they sat in the conference room, waiting for Greg to arrive. The room smelled like stale coffee and desperation. Clara's palm rested on the table, fingers tapping — a nervous tic she'd developed since the merger rumors started.

"He's going to say we're fine," Clara said, though her voice betrayed her. "Greg's a straight shooter."

Mara thought about pointing out that Greg had once told her she was "like family" right before staffing her on a project that required weekend work for six months straight. She thought about mentioning that last quarter, Greg had described their declining sales figures as "a temporary bull market correction" when they both knew revenue had dropped thirty percent.

Instead, she swallowed the vitamin with lukewarm water.

Greg entered, his smile practiced and terrifying. He didn't sit.

"I won't sugarcoat this," he began. "But I want you to know I see this as an opportunity."

Clara's hand stopped tapping.

Mara thought about sunlight. About buying a one-way ticket to somewhere with actual seasons. About the fact that her body was literally starving for light while she helped manufacture software that tracked other people's spending habits.

"Clara, Mara," Greg said, making eye contact with neither. "We're restructuring your roles."

Later, Mara would realize this was the moment. Not the layoffs themselves, but the way Clara's palm had gone still. The way Greg's face showed no recognition of the word he'd used to describe them, not three months prior, when he needed someone to cover the holiday shift.

That night, Mara threw the remaining vitamins in the trash. She booked a flight to a place she'd never been, where she didn't know a single person, and emailed her resignation at 3 AM from her phone, lying in bed that smelled like laundry detergent and exhaustion.

The automated out-of-office reply hit her inbox five minutes later. She turned off her phone, closed her eyes, and for the first time in years, she didn't set an alarm.