Zombies in the Bullpen

Sarah watched her reflection in the bathroom mirror, pulling at a stray strand of silver hair that had appeared overnight. At thirty-seven, she hadn't expected to be counting grays, but then again, she hadn't expected to be working twelve-hour days for a boss who wouldn't recognize talent if it walked in wearing a neon sign.

The corporate bullpen stretched before her like a graveyard of ambition. Row after row of cubicles, each occupied by someone who'd stopped dreaming years ago. Zombies, really — the walking dead who shuffled to work, shuffled through meetings, shuffled home to Netflix and wine.

"Morning, Sarah," called Tom from the next cubicle. His tie was already loosened, eyes glazed over from the 7 AM conference call with Tokyo.

"Morning."

She sat at her desk, arranged her pens in perfect alignment, and reached for the orange she'd brought from home. Its bright color seemed offensive against the beige and gray landscape. She peeled it slowly, letting the citrus scent cut through the recycled air.

Her phone buzzed. Henderson wanted to see her. Again.

Henderson's office smelled of expensive cologne and desperation. He stood by the window, overlooking the city like a conqueror who'd forgotten what he was conquering.

"Sarah," he said, not turning around. "The quarterly projections."

"They're on your desk."

"I need you to redo them."

She felt that familiar tightness in her chest. "They're accurate."

"They're not optimistic enough." He turned finally, his smile practiced and hollow. "You know what the market needs. Bullshit wrapped in spreadsheets. That's what we're selling here."

She remembered the orange waiting on her desk, that small burst of realness in a world of artificial light and artificial priorities.

"No," she said.

Henderson blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I won't redo them. They're accurate. Take them or leave them."

She walked out, feeling something strange and unfamiliar blooming in her chest. Not courage exactly — something more like remembering she was alive.

Back at her desk, she finished her orange in the fluorescent twilight. Around her, the zombies kept typing, their fingers moving while something essential inside them lay buried. But not her. Not anymore. She picked up her phone and made a call she'd been putting off for three years.

"Mom? Yeah. I'm coming home for Christmas. This time, I mean it."

Outside, the sunset burned orange against the glass buildings. For the first time in years, Sarah saw it.