Mid-afternoon, the office air hangs heavy with the sour tang of toner and the subtle staleness of too many people inhaling and exhaling in unison. Olivia sits anchored behind her desk: the laptop’s glow harsh on her face, her inbox yawning open, the day’s calendar blocks marching by in a hostile sequence of colors. To her left, papers stand in rigid formation—presentation drafts smeared with red-ink edits, bullet-point outlines for next week’s review. At her elbow, a coffee mug has cooled to a gleaming film of oil, the stain at its bottom proof of at least two prior refills.
She’s halfway through a reply to a client’s panicked email when the nausea rolls in—sudden and relentless—peaking in her throat before fading, leaving a chemical aftertaste, like draining a battery. Her fingers pause
