It wasn’t my face looking back at me in the reflection.

At least I didn’t think it was, just for a moment. The glass wasn’t exactly polished to a high sheen, and I was still a little hazy from my unexpected trip to the floor, so I couldn’t totally be sure, but for a fraction of a second, while I tugged on my lip and stuck out my lower jaw to see if I would indeed be making a trip to the dentist, I swore that a woman was looking back at me. A woman with dark hair and dark eyes and a dark expression.

I blinked, and of course it was just my face: bloodied, a bit puffier than usual around the mouth—and yes, missing a tooth—but it was just me.

I tenderly poked at my raw gum and bit back a curse. For some reason, I didn’t want to swear in front of the timeclock. I didn’t want to turn my back on it either, but a sudden desperate thought that I might be able to save my tooth prompted me to pull out my handkerchief and dig into the trashcan. I had just found the wayward incisor when I heard a click behind me.