Nerves. They don’t flutter through your stomach, but instead settle heavy in your chest, burning like acid until it’s all you can do to breathe.
You’re lying on your back in the middle of your living room, counting the plastic stars stuck to your ceiling. Thirty four, just like always. Wait, no, that one just fell. Thirty three.
Well, that’s new.
You let out a soft, slightly hysterical laugh and sit up. There’s nothing to worry about. You can do this, easily.
Though you get nervous enough to start shaking, you’re good at talking to people. You’re good at telling them what they want to hear. You can get through this interview.
You stand now, and check the time. You should probably start over there.
It’s at least a ten minute walk to the camp from outside the city, a two, three minute bus ride with good traffic (there’s never good traffic).
Your purse is where you left it, of course, gutted out with all manner of pursely objects scattered around the kitchen floor.
Nail cutters, chapstick, keys, sunglasses, phone case… where’s the phone? Ah, there it is, under the cabinets. Wallet, money, put that back in there, there we go.
Hand sanitizer, oo that’s almost empty, assorted bobby pins and hair ties, bandaids, headphones. There we are. Now that that’s all sorted you can head out to the interview.
You lock the door to your town house behind you and jog a bit down the grassy hill that slopes towards the street.
There’s a bus stop just a few feet away from your house, and it looks like a bus is just pulling up now. How convenient.
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