“I mean it,” she told the note. She told Leo too. “I mean it this time.”
She fed him. He ate like he always did, like the bowl might vanish if he looked away. She put the mug in the sink, rinsed it, and watched the coffee stain slip down the drain. That counted as progress.
The email from HR had come late last night. A short line.Return for desk duty tomorrow. Please check in with Vega at 9:00 a.m.
She read it again now and felt the same mix of relief and nausea. Ten days of a house that echoed. Ten days of muted newscasts and pretending not to listen for a voice she could pick out of a stadium. Ten days of buzzing she didn’t answer.
She scratched Leo’s head and tried out a steady tone. “Light duty,” she said. “We like light duty. We’re good at light duty. We’re gonna sit at a computer and type words other people will read to other people. We know how to do that. It’s simple.”
He leaned into her hand like he agreed.
“And afterward,” she said, finding the next part as she spoke it, “we’re going straight home. No detours. No stops. No thinking about parking lots or hallways or whether a certain person’ll be there. She won’t. We’re not doing that anymore.”
Her throat tightened at the last line. She swallowed and kept moving. She gathered the leash and tugged on a jacket. Outside, the air had a clean bite that made her eyes water. The city hummed at the edges. She let Leo lead and watched his ears tilt toward every sound.
Halfway down the block she said it again, because saying it out loud was the only way it felt true. “I’m done,” she told him. “I’m done trying to fit both things in my hands at once. I’ll always drop one. I’m choosing the job.”
A neighbor passed and nodded and kept going. Erin nodded back like she’d said nothing at all. Leo looked up at her with that dog look that made most things feel smaller and possible. She bent and rubbed the velvet between his ears.
“It’s better this way,” she said. “For both of us.”
Inside, she set out water and clipped the leash back on its hook. She stoodin the middle of the living room and made a list in her head. Keys. Wallet. Laptop. The badge was still gone, the empty space by the door still wrong, but she could walk back into that building and remember how to be useful. She could sit down and keep her head down and let time pull her forward.
Her phone sat facedown on the table. She’d learned to look at the shape of it instead of the screen. She slid it into her bag without checking it. The weight felt neutral for once.
“Guard the fort,” she told Leo. “Sleep. Don’t eat the box on the bottom shelf. I know you know which one. I’ll be back before you’re bored.”
He yawned like a promise and wandered to the patch of sun he’d claimed. She watched him circle and drop and sigh. It was the softest sound she’d heard all week.
At the door she paused. The apartment looked like itself again. She locked up, took the stairs, and stopped on the landing to breathe down into her ribs where the ache lived. It sat there, familiar and dull. Not sharp anymore. Not gone either. She nodded once to no one.
“Let’s go,” she said, and the words belonged to her again.
* * *
She remembered the smell of the building before she remembered how to walk through it. Coffee. Floor cleaner. A trace of paper and dust that never went away. She stood by the scanner and waited for Vega to finish a call. He glanced up and gave her the look he used when he wanted to tell her something would be fine without saying it. She appreciated that he held it behind his teeth.
“You good,” he asked quietly when he hung up, “to take inbox triage and schedule updates today?”
“Yeah,” she said. Her voice came out even. “I can do that.”
He nodded and pointed her toward a workstation a few desks away from her own. Temporary. A good word if you didn’t need it to carry the whole world.
She kept her eyes on the screen. The monitor flickered, then steadied. Herhands found the keyboard like nothing had changed at all. Inbox numbers in the triple digits. A clean place to put her head.
She worked. She answered what she could and flagged what she couldn’t. She edited briefing notes to remove the parts that made her stomach pull. She built a grid for next week and left the slots blank that she used to fill without thinking. When she caught herself drifting toward the old rhythm, she stopped, took a drink of water, and started the sentence over.
People passed. Some said hello. Some set a hand on the back of her chair as they walked by and then took it away like they’d touched a stove. She didn’t hold any of it against them. She didn’t have that kind of space inside her.
Around lunch, someone set a wrapped sandwich by her elbow and kept walking. She never looked up to see who it was. She ate half and put the rest in the fridge. She washed her hands. She went back to the inbox.
Her phone buzzed once in the bag at her feet. She knew the shape of that vibration too. She wrote a sentence about traffic detours and checked it against the latest map. She moved the sentence where it belonged. She watched the cursor blink and thought about nothing.
Late afternoon, Vega slid a folder onto her desk and lowered his voice. “You can head out when you’re ready,” he said. “You don’t have to stay for shift change.”
“Thanks,” she said. She looked up just long enough to meet his eyes. He looked away first, which felt like a gift.
She stretched her hands and felt every bone in them. She sent two more emails and saved a draft of a third. She cleared her desktop and sat for a second with the blank blue behind the icons. It looked like a pool she could fall into.
