The Wellness Protocol

Maggie's palm trembled as she reached for the vitamin D supplement—doctor's orders, supposedly, though what good was a pill when you spent twelve hours a day under fluorescent lights that hummed like dying insects? She was forty-three, and her body had started filing complaints.

The new CEO, a man whose jawline suggested he'd never known a moment of self-doubt, had just delivered his presentation on "company culture." It was pure bull, of course—the kind of corporate performance art that had everyone nodding like dashboard bobbleheads. But nobody said anything. The bull market in tech had ended last year, taking with it the luxury of calling out nonsense.

"Your vitamin levels affect productivity," he'd said, clicking to a slide showing what appeared to be the same cheerful person before and after taking supplements. Maggie had wanted to ask if he knew his posture suggested he'd never been truly tired in his life.

Instead, she'd nodded along, thinking about Marcus.

Marcus, with his calloused palms and his tendency to say what everyone else was thinking. Marcus, who'd been laid off three months ago and now sent her photos of himself surfing at dawn, backlit by what looked like actual sunlight. Last week he'd texted: The ocean doesn't care about KPIs.

A storm was brewing outside. Lightning cracked the sky, sudden and violent, illuminating her reflection in the darkened monitor—a woman who'd spent two decades climbing ladders that turned out to be leaning against the wrong wall.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus: 'Palm reading says you're at a crossroads. Also, come have actual food tonight.'

Maggie looked at the vitamin, the CEO's empty presentation room, the lightning drawing fractals across the windows. She pushed the supplement into her pocket—could take it later, or not at all—and grabbed her bag.

Some bullshit, she decided, you just walk away from.