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I know nothing about Graham Hoffman. And what I thought I did know is a fucking lie. I settle my head against my knees and allow the headache to consume me. I take five steady, calculated breaths.
I can do this.
I survived worse things.
My nose drips in accordance with the silent tears flowing down my cheeks. I use the sleeve of my coat to soak up the moisture.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I focus on the air filling and deflating from my lungs.
Breathe.
When I gather the fragments of strength I have left in me to fight, I crawl toward the number panel and slam my fist onto the five, making it light up.
Shit’s about to hit the fan.
And Graham fucking Hoffman better brace himself for me.
