Everything seemed to be taking too long. It wasn’t happening in slow-motion or anything cliché like that. Her perception of time hadn’t been altered. It was just all of it taking too long. The act of walking from the living room where she’d been pacing to the bedroom where her phone was. The search as she tore the covers off her bed, threw the pillows against the wall, dropped to hands and knees and checked underneath the damn thing. It wasn’t in any of those places, wasn’t on the nightstand, wasn’t on the dresser, wasn’t in the pocket of the jeans she had thrown into a pile of the dirty clothes on the floor. She finally found it in the bathroom, which was ridiculous. Had she even used the bathroom that day? She didn’t think so. She couldn’t remember having done so, at least. But then, when the sickness, the hunger, overtook her, she couldn’t remember much of anything at all.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the sun, for example. Her hand as she dialed the number was pale as alabaster, thin as paper, the veins under her skin an unhealthy blue verging on purple. Almost the color of a bruise.
She didn’t dial the number. She had it programmed into the phone. It was quicker that way. She ran a dry tongue across cracked lips as she listened to it ring.