The same sterile tile hallways. The same flickering fluorescent lights. The same pale yellow wallpaper. Repeating forever and ever. I was going to die here, trapped, unable to find my way out. I’d never see the sky again, never feel sunlight on my skin or the breeze in my hair. How long had it been? Seconds stretched into minutes, which bled into a frothing pool of hours and days.
Through cracked lips, my feeble voice slipped out one last, desperate hope that someone might be waiting just around the next corner in this endless labyrinth of pain and entropy.
“H-help me…” I croaked to the indifferent ceiling.
A sharp flick to my ear snapped me back.
“Cut it out,” my mother hissed. “You’re weirding out the other customers.”
Pouting, I shuffled forward in the pharmacy line as the display dinged and flipped to 56. I looked down at my ticket.
108
And in that moment, I knew I would surely perish here.
Calvin Ho 
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