Simone glanced at the clock on her phone but didn’t register the time. Her right foot tapped against the floor rapidly and without rhythm. Much to her irritation, the door to the Albert C. Albertson library was locked, preventing her from organizing her papers and taking a few much-needed deep breaths. Instead, she sat — or more accurately half stood, precariously and uncomfortably — on the tall chair with the small table that sat in front of the library entrance. Realizing that she hadn’t actually seen what time it was, Simone looked back at her phone, which she kept gripped in her right hand. The time was 15:02. 

‘So much for showing up 15 minutes early,’ Simone said to no one. The tapping of her right foot picked up pace and her left one joined in, sending out hollow slapping sounds, as if a dozen furious waterfowl marched through the empty halls.

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The outside of the building is innocuous. Swallowed by the surrounding structures, it seems small and unremarkable. As is so common in cityscapes, there are endless windows that reflect the clouds and smoggy sky. You can’t see inside until your face is pressed to the glass. Considering the banality of its exterior, it is to Lee’s surprise that everything on the inside of the building is so slick, so fresh, so modern. She was expecting it to have the feel of a hospital, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t feel sterile or cold, it doesn’t have any of the typical aesthetic associated with medical facilities.

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