Frida's alarm blared through her room like a siren, startling her awake with the force of a cannonball.
She bolted upright, her heart thudding in her chest, her mind scrambling to process what had just happened. And then it hit her, she was about to miss her flight.
"Shit!" she shrieked, leaping out of bed as if it had caught fire.
Her feet tangled in her sheets, sending her stumbling toward her dresser.
She clawed at the drawer, yanking it open to grab some clothes, but they spilled onto the floor in a chaotic heap.
Growling in frustration, she tore off her pajamas with a kind of frantic aggression and bolted toward the bathroom.
The cold water from the showerhead hit her skin like ice daggers, making her shriek before the temperature adjusted.
Her hands moved feverishly, scrubbing at her skin and hair as if she could somehow wash away her panic.
