Page 3 of The Wild Card

I dig my thumbnail into my palm. Focus.

“That’s… unexpected, sir.”

“I know change isn’t your favorite thing,” Daniels says it gently, which somehow makes it worse. “But this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Change isn’t your favorite thing.

That’s one way to put it. Another way: change makes my brain convince me that everything I’ve built is about to collapse, and the only way to survive is to control every variable around me, which is impossible, which means I’m always one disruption away from disaster.

“What’s the timeline?” My voice comes out steady. Small mercies.

“About two months to wrap up here. Transfer finalized by summer.” He pauses. “Unless you have compelling reasons to stay?”

The question hangs between us.

Compelling reasons. He means a relationship. A family. Ties to the community that don’t involve tactical briefings and case files.

I have none of the normal things people my age probably have. My most steady relationship is with my gym membership.

“I’ll think about it, sir.”

Daniels nods, but something in his expression suggests he expected more enthusiasm. “Don’t think too long. Opportunities like this get snapped up fast.”

The drive home is a blur of taillights and my own racing thoughts.

My brain runs scenarios the whole way, each one worse than the last. I accept the transfer, upend everything I’ve built, and end up having a breakdown in Alaska because anxiety’s a bitch and what if I can’t handle the stress. I decline the transfer, get labeled as not a team player, and watch my career stagnate while everyone whispers about the guy who couldn’t handle a promotion.

There’s no good option. Just different flavors of damage control.

My apartment is exactly how I left it this morning. Couch cushions aligned. Remote on the coffee table at a precise angle. Kitchen spotless, every item in its place.

Perfect. Controlled. Empty.

Murphy appears from the bedroom, his orange fur catching the evening light as he winds around my ankles. He’s a massive tabby with one ear that flops sideways and a fang that sticks out, giving him the look of a small furry gargoyle. I found him on my fire escape two years ago. Took him to the shelter three times. Watched him reappear each time like some kind of feline ghost until I finally gave up and let him stay.

I named him Murphy. As in Murphy’s Law—whatever can go wrong, will.

Story of my life.

“You’re the only one who hasn’t bailed yet,” I tell him.

He meows. Probably means feed me, you emotionally unavailable disaster.

Fair enough.

I open a can of the expensive wet food—the only kind he’ll eat, because of course—and watch him attack it. Then I stand in my kitchen and feel the panic start to rise.

Alaska in two months.

My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the counter, count to four, release. Count to four again.

It doesn’t help.

I walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower as hot as it will go. The water helps. A little. Steam fills the small space, and I press my forehead against the cool tile and try to breathe.

This is what they don’t tell you about having a brain like mine. It’s not just the routines, the checking, the counting. It’s the exhaustion of fighting your own mind every single day. The constant vigilance against thoughts that want to drag you under.

Some days I win. Some days I barely survive.