You are driving down Military Trail. You are drinking lukewarm coffee with the strange coconut creamer you bought on impulse last week. You are turning into the main hospital entrance, coming up on the roundabout, and following along to the road leading to the employee parking garage. You are listening to Dust to Dust by The Civil Wars. Your eyes feel impossibly heavy. You can feel your stomach rising and brushing against your undershirt as you take a deep exhausted breath. You are wearing black nondescript work trousers and a pale equally nondescript loose blouse. You are waiting in a small line of cars and SUVs idling before the gate. You are pulling out an ID from the sheath of your lanyard, which reads Government Employee. You are rolling down the window and holding the ID to a small black box until it beeps. You are watching the gate jolt open and are entering the garage. You have the ID between your teeth as you roll up the window with one hand and maneuver through the garage with the other. You are suddenly painfully aware that this is the beginning and the end of all your living days. That this moment is just a generic microcosm, a prototype, of all your 7:45am Monday through Friday moments, until you perish, or retire, whatever comes first.
You take another sip of lukewarm coconut cream coffee, pull into the first available spot, and turn the key.