The Wellness Pyramid Scheme

The corporate pyramid had squeezed Marcus dry by forty-three, leaving him here at dawn, swallowing a handful of vitamin supplements that promised to fix what twelve-hour workdays had broken. He caught his reflection in the kitchen window—hollow cheeks, eyes that had forgotten how to rest—and wondered when he'd started looking like his father.

"Bullshit," he muttered, watching dog #3, a rescue named Buster, limp across the linoleum. The old golden retriever had been his wife's idea. Another emotional bandage on a marriage that had stopped bleeding years ago, just scar tissue holding two strangers together.

The glass of water sat untouched on the counter. His therapist kept telling him to stay hydrated, as if proper fluid intake could somehow dilute the existential dread that woke him at 3 AM. But today was different. Today he was supposed to fly to Cabo for a company retreat—some pyramid scheme disguised as team building where they'd drink overpriced cocktails and pretend the bull market wasn't about to trample them all.

Buster whined, pressing his muzzle against Marcus's knee. The dog needed medication too. Some days Marcus thought the dog understood him better than Sarah did, though she'd stopped asking how he felt years ago. Probably because she already knew.

He looked at his phone. Three missed calls from his boss. One text from Sarah: "Have a safe flight. We'll talk when you get back."

The phrase hit him like physical violence. We'll talk. Divorce-speak. She'd found the antidepressants he'd hidden in the vitamin bottle last month.

Marcus picked up the water glass, his hand steady for the first time in months. He set it down without drinking. Then he called the airline, canceled his ticket, and sat on the kitchen floor with his head against the dog's warm flank. For once, the pyramid could wait.