She Still Didn't Believe

“So John, what's Dalton's strategy?” Meg dropped it casually, like a sack of potatoes onto the floor. Like she didn't care what the answer was, as long as there was one.

“He actually thinks strategy is a waste of time.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Don't believe me, or don't believe Dalton?”

She folded her arms in front of her and started tapping the floor with her left foot. “Yeah,” she said.

John chuckled the sort of chuckle that you have to be near to notice, more a quick expulsion of air from the nose than anything resembling laughter. They were more than near enough for her to notice.

Her plan had been to learn Dalton's strategy and then prepare a counterattack. But if he had no strategy—and she still wasn't convinced of that—her plan would have to change. The prospect didn't thrill her, but then, she'd been at this a long time.

Adapt or die. She wasn't ready to die.

“Let's say I believe you,” she said.

“Hypothetically speaking?”

“Right, let's just throw that out there for grits and shins.” She stopped tapping the floor. “How the hell does Dalton expect to succeed without a strategy?”

“Good question. The truth is, he doesn't expect anything. He just does it.”

“And what? Hopes for the best?”

“Pretty much.”

“Tough way to go through life.”

“It works for him. Dalton usually gets the best, so there's not much incentive for him to change.”

“If it ain't broke...”

He nodded. She scanned the room. There was nothing here for her eyes to focus on, just drab eggshell white walls and a small window in the corner. It was confining, like a cliché. Like her life.

She still didn't believe.