Page 11

10

Lena

T he first rule of Shergar is that no one tells you the rules.

Not directly, anyway.

They’ll hand you an orientation packet with motivational phrases printed in tasteful fonts. They’ll assign you an email, a login, and a desk. But they will not tell you the things that matter.

What time am I actually allowed to leave? How many mistakes before I become one? What exactly happened to my predecessor?

Andra doesn’t even look at me when she walks by my office. She just drops the words like a bomb: “Check your inbox.”

Then she’s gone.

No good morning . No how’s your second day going, Lena? Settling in okay? Just check your inbox and an expectation that I’ll understand exactly what the hell I’m supposed to be doing.

I open my email.

From: Andra

Subject: Onboarding - Week One

I skim it. A list of vague directives, a few attached files I don’t fully understand, and?—

A forwarded message.

From: Ellis Harrison

Subject: New Hire Review

I scroll. And stop.

He wrote this to her.

It’s a short email. Barely three sentences. It’s clinical . Professional. But something about it makes my skin crawl.

Proceed with standard integration. Should respond well to structured transition. Continues to demonstrate high adaptability.

Keep me updated.

No greeting. No sign-off. Just a quiet, surgical dissection of me , like I’m a project being evaluated.

Should respond well.

Like a trial drug. Or a dog.

Before that one, there’s another email.

From: Ellis Harrison

To: Andra

Subject: Your new hire

I know I shouldn’t, but I read it.

Andra,

You will ensure she acclimates. Compliance is essential. Monitor her closely.

Make sure she understands the stakes.

- E.H.

Again, the phrasing. The precision.

Not make sure she understands the job. Not make sure she has the resources she needs.

Make sure she understands the stakes.

I glance up, and Andra is standing in my door again. She could’ve emailed me. Instead, she’s here in the flesh. Again. Her expression is unreadable.

“Mr. Harrison expects efficiency,” she says.

I nod, though I have no idea why she’s telling me this.

She sets a thick binder on my desk. Shergar Policies & Procedures, 2025 Edition. I have a feeling it won’t provide the answers I actually need.

She taps a section marked “EXPECTATIONS.” A list of phrases that feel hollow.

Maintain adaptability. Exercise discretion. Align with company objectives.

“I assume this won’t be an issue?” she asks.

I should ask what any of this even means, but I get the sense that’s not the point.

“No issue at all,” I say.

She nods once. “Good.”

And then she leaves.

I stare at the binder.

I open it. The first page is just a single sentence, centered in the middle of an otherwise blank sheet.

We are all part of something greater.

What the fuck does that mean?

Before I can decide whether I should be concerned, my stomach growls loud enough to startle me. Right. Breakfast. I never got around to that.

I push away from my desk and head for the break room, trying to remember where I saw it yesterday. Shergar is immaculately designed—so sleek and uniform that every hallway looks the same, which I assume is intentional.

I pass glass-walled conference rooms where no one is talking. They’re working , in unison, a quiet symphony of polished efficiency.

This place is too quiet.

Like a library.

Or a church.

Or a hospital, right before they tell you bad news.

I should be grateful for this job. Grateful for the paycheck. Grateful I don’t have to spend another night in my car, curled around the emergency brake, scrolling through Zillow listings I can’t afford.

I should feel relieved.

Instead, I feel like I’m waiting for something to go wrong.

Maybe it’s because my last attempt at a fresh start ended in divorce papers. Not the messy kind with lawyers and screaming and fights over who gets the good couch—just a slow unraveling. A quiet, mutual acknowledgment that we weren’t the same people we were at twenty-five.

Five years of marriage, and the only real betrayal was time.

It happens. People grow apart.

That’s what I tell myself. That’s what I believe.

It still feels like failure.

And I’m not looking to go down that road again.

Which is why this has to work.