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The backs of her thighs are glued to a stippled, blue plastic chair. Around her, the grind of classic rock accosts the bleeping machine monotony she has gotten used to. Shift must have changed. Deb takes a sip of her vending machine coffee and swallows without tasting. Not that there's much to taste.
She stares at the window and watches streaks of rain smear the bright raincoats, umbrellas, and headlights into fantastic mosaics, beautiful glimpses of the world she now lives in - a world where nothing is in focus and everything seems to be running in fast forward ... between pauses.
When the nurse steps out, bearing her clipboard like a shield, Deb stands and nods. She picks up her purse and, feeling the sweat dry on her dimpled legs, she adjusts her coat and opens the door.
"Miss ... Ma'am?"
The words fall like dead cartoon ducks. Deb keeps walking.
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