And for three seconds—three actual, measurable, sacred seconds—her lungs are full of something that is not the antiseptic smell of Bed 12. Not the sour-sweet of Mr. Hendricks's last breath. Not the lavender hand sanitizer she's used forty times tonight until her cuticles cracked and bled.
She stubs it out. The ember crushes into grey ash. A tiny, complete ending. Tls Smoke Lesson 2 Leah