The layoff notices arrived on recycled paper, printed single-sided to save costs. Beth watched from her cubicle as they made their way through the office like a slow-moving tide, starting with the hourly workers on the ground floor.

"It's just temporary," the executives had promised in the all-hands meeting last month, their voices crackling through the aging conference call system. "The market will recover."

From her window, Beth could see the FOR LEASE signs multiplying across the street like digital dandelions. The luxury condos that had priced out her old neighborhood now sat half-empty, their floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting clouds.

Her phone lit up with a message from her former roommate Tara: "Lost another cleaning contract. Rich people cutting corners. You still have an extra room?"

Beth glanced at her own notice, crisp and inevitable on her desk. She thought of her emergency fund, already drained by her mother's medical bills. Of the student loan payments that hadn't stopped when her salary was cut. Of Tara's two kids.

In the elevator, Marcus from IT clutched a cardboard box of belongings. "My wife's firm is doing well," he said, trying to smile. "Tech's still booming. We'll be fine."

Beth remembered his wife's Tesla, the private school their kids attended. They would be fine.

Outside, a line snaked around the block – not for the trendy brunch spot that had replaced the local diner, but for the food bank that had replaced the trendy brunch spot. Beth recognized her old barista, the one who'd remembered her order. The valet who'd parked cars at the steakhouse down the street. The young man who'd delivered her groceries during the pandemic.

Her phone buzzed again. Tara: "?"

Beth typed back "Come stay with me" as she joined the line, wondering how long until someone she knew would see her there, until the tide reached their shore too.