The gnawing hunger wakes me before my alarm can do its job. I blink blearily around my dark room for a moment before I force myself up. My feet hit the cold floor, and I fumble my way to the kitchenette, retrieving the remains from this morning's breakfast—stale bread and jam, the glamorous food of a woman on the run.
I wolf down my dinner-breakfast hybrid, finishing just as the alarm blares to life. I smack the off button and groggily start getting ready for my last shift at the bar. Once I'm done, I grab my bag from the floor and throw all of my meager belongings into it, except my toilet tank savings—I can get that when I'm back later. I toss the backpack on the bed, then shove the chair away from the door so I can get out.
I lock the door and jog down the stairs, already counting the minutes. Damn, I'm cutting it close.
***
