The hour that followed dragged like molasses.
Mya sat at her kitchen table, staring at the blinking cursor on her phone screen as if it might reveal something more than the bare words she had already sent. One hour. Just sixty minutes. But it felt like sixty days compressed into the space of a clock’s hands crawling across a face.
She tried to return to her job search, forcing her eyes back to the glowing screen. Her thumb scrolled mechanically, but the words blurred together until every “Now Hiring” read like a taunt. Each bullet point—must have two years of experience, must work weekends, must hold a degree—felt like a gate slamming shut.
She dropped the phone onto the table with a soft clatter and stood abruptly. The walls felt too close, the ceiling too low. Her legs carried her int
