Tris Prior

Two more weeks. I keep repeating that to myself, but I've never been good at patience. I went to the hospital this morning and the stitches were cut out of my right palm, but my left hand is still trapped in metal splints and medical tape. I can go running, outside, but at wok I'm relegate to desk duty until I'm no longer splinted. I know it's policy for all employees, but I still chafe, waiting. I want to climb and jump higher again, outpacing all the bad dreams that weigh on me.

I want to be at the punching bags, climbing the scaffolding. Anywhere but behind this desk. I feel so tense, so ready to run, that I forget to lift my head when I hear the door chime.

"Can I help you?"