Megan stared at the stain, horrified.
“Darn,” she said, brushing at the spilled coffee on her white blouse.
“The interview is in thirty minutes. I look like an ad for detergent gone wrong.”
“Well,” Jocelyn leaned against the bathroom wall. “You didn’t want the job anyway, did you?”
“Not really,” Megan stopped rubbing.
“But this interview was the only way I could think to meet that hunk Bob Wrigley. Now I have to start over.”
Megan stared at the stain, horrified. The blood spot lay in the center of her hand, oozing from a cut in her palm. She watched it grow redder, deeper, thicker, as it moved its way down her arm. Surely someone would come soon. She tried to move her leg, but the twisted metal held her down. She’d wait, and continue to stare. In some strange way, it gave her comfort.
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