The little red needle sent a tick ringing through the air. A perfect, relaxing, slow 60 beats per minute. I forced my feet to tap along and sent a glance at the clock. Not fast enough. I tapped out eighth notes, then triplets, sixteenth, thirty-seconds, sixty-fourths. I lost all sense of tempo, resigning myself to shaking my leg wildly. My hands scratched a similar beat into the armrests of the waiting room. I frantically vibrated in my seat, causing the stiff fabric and unstable framework of the chair to squeak. Other patrons glared my way, their own hands nervously ringing. My lungs started to join the frenzy.

A hand rested on my knee. I stopped moving, centering myself on the soothing circles my mother wore into my knee. I tore my gaze away from the clock and focused instead on the painting opposing me. A calm beach scene. It wasn’t very calming; all it did was remind me of our family vacation to Florida three years ago. It reminded me of a time before this. Before the fevers and the fainting. Before the late-night hospital visits. Before everything went wrong

The doors opened and dozens of eyes snapped towards it. I stared at the faux waves, trying to time travel via pure will. I could almost feel the sun warm my face.

“Mrs. Brooks? I’m sorry...” I closed my eyes, letting soft waves drown out everything around me.