Sam walked out of the grey and silver building, windows like eyes, with her stomach somewhere near her lungs. It was oddly exhilarating. She blinked in the cold November sunlight. Her palms were sweaty when she fished the bike lock key out of the pocket of her grey suit jacket.

“Damn it,” she thought as she fumbled with the key, struggling to shake the clouds from her head. She bent over to pick up the key from the damp cement. Her heart raced with the effort and her brain swam as she lifted her head. She fumbled with the book bag full of notes, yellow legal pads and books, as well. Pedalling home, unsteady in her effort to warm up enough to keep her hands still, she moved her lips in an imaginary song to settle her thoughts. The words did not form. When the message came, her shoulders sank, pushing her chest down. She quickly sucked in what little air and held her breath. She closed her eyes. Sam brought her hand up to her right temple instinctively. She slowed down her breathing with purpose, but nausea came quickly. Sam wanted to be home. She pulled her jacket tight like the warm bed covers she so desperately wished she had around her to make her safe and hide her from view. Waves of injury rolled in. It was nothing new, nonetheless, she tipped her head to the side and looked at the ground, wondering what layers of the earth would drink in the street and hide her reddening face with lips pursed.

Elle was angry. She explained herself silently to the bicycle seat as she brushed the rain off of it. The rain made her angry too. The cold was an afterthought. She shuddered from the chill but ignored it and settled on focusing on the headache rhythmically playing her temples like an electronic drum kit. Damn. It was the 15^th of the month. The food in the fridge would have to last for 15 more days. Her face flushed with irritation.