Thirteen Percent Battery

The pool at the Mirage was exactly as Maya had imagined—turquoise and unnaturally still, like water in a high-end aquarium. She sat at the edge, legs submerged, her iPhone propped on the lounge chair beside her. Thirteen percent.

"You're missing the sunset," David said, appearing behind her with two white pills in his palm. "Your vitamin D and omega-3. Doctor's orders."

She took them without water, swallowing dry. David had been carrying her supplements around in Ziploc bags since her anxiety diagnosis three months ago. He was good like that. The kind of good that felt increasingly like management.

"Just checking email," she lied. She wasn't. She was watching the live updates from her team's launch party in New York, knowing she should have been there. David had convinced her this vacation was necessary—"for your healing, Maya." He'd booked the suite, the spa appointments, the palm-fringed balcony with its view of nothing at all.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Julian: *The presentation crashed. No backup. Need you.*

Maya stared at Julian's name. Last month, after the holiday party, she'd deleted their conversation history. Twice.

"Work can wait," David said, stretching out beside her. "You're supposed to be disconnecting. Remember what we talked about? Boundaries."

Boundaries. The word landed like a stone in her stomach. She looked at the pool again—chlorinated and blue, nothing like the ocean she'd grown up near. This water didn't move. It was contained.

"Maya?"

She stood up, water dripping from her legs onto the concrete. Her iPhone glowed with another message from Julian. Eleven percent now.

"I forgot something upstairs," she said.

In their suite, she didn't pack. She just grabbed her purse, left the key card on the pristine bed, and took the stairs down to the lobby. Outside, the Las Vegas air was hot and dry, nothing like water at all.

She flagged a taxi and gave the driver Julian's address.

Her phone died somewhere on the way to the airport.