The Island Cull

Three years at Pellucid Systems and the whole company has me filed under one tab: the PM who can take a hit.

Coworkers hand me the blame. Managers hand me the demos and keep the credit. The college roommate I covered an $8,400 hospital bill for tells our group chat I'm sweet, basically — meaning easy money.

Then HR books the entire company onto a leased barrier island off the Outer Banks for what the all-hands deck calls a four-week strategic offsite. Cedar-shake cottages, a private ferry, no cell service unless you walk to the dock. At the welcome dinner the founder-CEO stands up to toast us and says, by the way, this is also a stack-rank exercise. Bottom team, end of the month, RIF.

Nobody leaves the island until then.

Yara hooks her arm through mine and her eyes go wet on cue. *Wrenny, we have to win this together.*

*She's a soft target. I just need her under me on the org chart and I'm safe.* That's her voice too — the other one, the one I shouldn't be able to hear.

My VP claps a hand on my shoulder and gives me his mentor smile. "Wren. Just relax this trip. I've got you."

*Did she back up the project docs. Finance is closing in. She has to be gone by Friday or I'm done.*

I tighten my grip on the champagne flute and turn, and walk straight into the tall quiet one from Platform Architecture. Soren Whitfield drops his eyes. The tips of his ears go red.

*She smells like white tea. Want to hold her.*

A second later every retreat-issued iPad in the room flashes black, then red.

`ELIMINATED ≠ FIRED.`

The ferry signal drops. The Wi-Fi drops. The mainland goes away.