She should have been writing. Instead, she watched the time slide away from her.

5'44". 5'32". 5'11".

What was this? she asked—not herself, but God, the heavens, the hall monitor, anybody but herself. Was this paralysis?

No. This was a choice. And even though she closed her eyes, she still couldn't get away from that.

4'09". 3'58".

Why not write? There was the prompt on the page. She could do this. She was good at this. She always had been, always, always. Write on command. Paper comes back; mark at the top.

She didn't work hard for years and take out loans and then throw thousands away by failing to even *start*. She didn't flunk things. She just didn't.

1'51".

Well, she was going to flunk this.

And some pat of her knew why.