I’m late. I know I’m late.
The gravel crunches under my boots as I turn another corner. If this place weren’t so monotonous I might have a clue where I was. Every path is dusty gravel or shoddily made sidewalks. Every building is plywood with dull off-white paint, plain concrete, or a repurposed shipping container. Every damn one of us is dressed alike too.
I’m going to be late. This sucks!
I try the nearest building, a nondescript cement mass with a dull interior, all tiles and beige paint. It feels like a hospital; I know it isn’t one. The lighting isn’t good enough, and it’s getting dark outside, not that there are any windows, just propped open doors.
I hate being late like this. Am I going to puke?
I stop. I can’t stop, so I keep going. The halls and rooms are like a maze, a pointless endless maze. I find graffiti—a wolf head and the words, “Nec Aspera Terrent.” Somehow that doesn’t seem encouraging.
I am so damn late. If I could just remember where I"m supposed to be, cause it isn’t here.