3.25.2003

Though he had no watch with him in the bathroom stall, he estimated he'd been there for at least half an hour. Two people had come and gone since he went in there to hide, and one of them, the program assistant in Facilities, he recognized by the salt-stained brown leather shoes the guy always wore. And he usually took twenty minutes in the shitter. What mattered, though: no one had come looking for him yet, like they had two months earlier when he passed out sitting on the toilet seat, lips blue and chest heaving.

He would never use the restrooms at work, anyway, since he loathed the warm feeling he perceived from whoever had been in there last. There was no way to verify what his co-workers did in there, what they left there. Rather than share, he just sat and caught his breath whenever the panic hit.

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