The Wellness Protocol

Elena stared at the vitamin D supplement on her desk, a small amber capsule that promised to fix everything the winter had stolen from her. Outside, the Boston sky was the color of old newsprint, and inside, the office hummed with the quiet desperation of people who'd stopped asking themselves why they were still here.

"You look like a zombie," Marcus said, appearing at her cubicle entrance with two coffees. "No offense."

"None taken," Elena said. "I feel like one."

Marcus was the closest thing she had to a friend in this place—a friendship built on shared cigarettes during their twenties and now, in their midthirties, shared disillusionment. He set a coffee on her desk.

"I put myself out there," he said quietly. "Asked for that promotion."

Elena turned. The circles under Marcus's eyes looked bruised. "And?"

"Bullshit," he said, his voice cracking. "They gave it to Brad. The guy who calls 'synergy' every time he wants to waste two hours in a conference room."

The injustice sat between them, heavy and familiar. This was the bull they'd been charging at for years—never quite impaled, just exhausted.

"My mother," Elena said suddenly, "used to make spinach salad every Sunday. Said it was medicine. My father hated it. Called it 'cow food.' They fought about it every week for thirty years."

Marcus looked at her, confused.

"She died two years ago," Elena continued. "He lives on frozen pizzas now. Says he's finally free."

They stood there as the office fluorescents flickered, both suddenly, painfully aware of the things they were swallowing—vitamins, disappointments, time itself.

"Let's get out of here," Marcus said. "Right now. Just walk."

Elena looked at the vitamin, the coffee, the spreadsheet demanding attention. Then she stood up, grabbed her coat, and for the first time in a decade, didn't look back at her desk.