11:47

The text came at 11:47.

I'd clocked out at 11:42.

Freezer burn still on my hands.

The walk-in cold still in my clothes.

Cardboard dust still in my hair.

I sat in the car. The phone

lit up against the dark.

The message had a line break

in the middle—like they stopped typing,

or didn't care enough to finish

the thought.

I could see my face

in the windshield.

Pale. Tired. Still wearing

the grocery store on my skin.

Five minutes.

That's how much time I had

between clocking out

and this.

Five minutes in the dark

before everything.

The text was casual.

So casual.

Like it meant nothing.

I still smelled like freezer burn.

The cold was still on me.

I still didn't know

what to do with my hands.