Wellness Protocol

The vitamin D supplement sat on Mara's desk like a tiny accusation. Her third today. Dr. Evelyn from third floor had dropped by with that predatory smile, dropping compliments about Mara's 'pale complexion' like breadcrumbs.

"You want to move up the pyramid, sweetie," she'd said, gesturing vaguely toward the executive suites overhead. "But you've got to glow first."

The company structure was indeed a pyramid—narrow at the top, impossible to climb, and built entirely on the labor of those buried beneath. 'Holix Wellness' sold the promise of optimal living to people who were already exhausted, harvesting their dreams and reselling them at a 300% markup.

Mara swallowed the vitamin dry.

Her phone buzzed. Dad again. Game seven, World Series, and he wanted her to watch like old times. Before the wellness industry. Before she'd learned that corporate ladders were designed with broken rungs.

Baseball had been their language. Dad in the garage, radio crackling, explaining the geometry of a pitch. The way a curveball breaks—that sudden, impossible drop—had taught her more about reality than any business seminar. Sometimes you swing. Sometimes you don't. The ball moves regardless.

"Mara, you in there?"

Chad from marketing. He leaned in her doorway, holding a pyramid of energy drinks. "We're doing the 'vitality challenge' today. You in? Winner gets lunch with the CEO."

She looked at him—really looked at him. Thirty-two, hair already thinning, eyes carrying that specific panic of someone who'd realized the pyramid scheme was literal, and he was somewhere in the middle layers.

"No thanks," she said.

"But—"

"I have a baseball game to watch."

She packed her bag. The vitamin bottle went into the trash. Let them find someone else to glow.

Outside, the autumn air hit her like truth. She called her dad. "I'm coming over. What's the inning?"

"Bottom of the ninth," he said. "Two outs, full count."

Perfect time to step up to the plate.