Brandy, dripping wet, her hair a frizzy mess of mousey brown, held her ticket as she waited, not taking her eyes off the sign showing the number being served. The flap had not flipped and the noise had not clicked since her arrival. The condescending number 23 glared at her in its permanence, and reflected back on itself through her hazel eyes. Looking down at the soggy ticket she held between puckered fingers, it snickered back at her, the inky number 44 running like mascara on porcelain skin.

Fifteen minutes passed and still no click had come. Brandy felt the warmth of a single tear slip out of the corner of her eye and run down her cold skin. She knew she had been there, waiting, for several hours, but still she dripped onto the white tile floor. Looking around, she realized there was no one else waiting. She stood alone in the quiet white room, just her and the sign showing the number being served.

She attempted a pensive “hello,” but there was no response, save for her own echoing voice. In a wet collapse she folded onto the floor, trying to remember why she was there. The water continued to drip and pool around her, rising and covering her legs, up to her waist, soon reaching her neck. Brandy’s scream turned to a gurgle as the water reached her mouth. When her eyes slid under the coldness, the last thing she saw was the sign showing 23, the number being served.

Brandy, dripping wet, her hair a frizzy mess of mousey brown, held her ticket as she waited, not taking her eyes off the sign showing the number being served. The flap had not flipped and the noise had not clicked since her arrival. The condescending number 23 glared at her in its permanence, and reflected back on itself through her hazel eyes. Looking down at the soggy ticket she held between puckered fingers, it snickered back at her, the inky number 44 running like mascara on porcelain skin.