Page 27 of Red Zone
Only when everything is in its place—hair braided, skin cool and clean, lights checked, doors locked, pillow just right—do I finally allow myself to breathe.
And maybe sleep.
If my brain will let me.
By the time Monday afternoon rolls around, my head is pounding. Not the dull ache kind, either.
It’s sharp—like my brain’s too swollen for my skull and every sound slices through me.
I didn’t sleep much this weekend.
Not well, anyway.
I’ve triple-checked everything on my tablet. Color-coded time blocks. Highlighted player assignments. Two backup schedules, one handwritten just in case someone “can’t find the PDF.”
There are two notepads stacked beside me—one for general notes, one for social media briefs.
Pens aligned at perfect angles.
Everything is in order.
It has to be.
The office buzzes around me—keyboards clacking, printers humming, someone tapping a foot way too loud under the table.
I adjust the edge of my notepad again. Then once more.
My hands are shaking.
I’m not even sure why. Lack of sleep? Pressure? The feeling that one thing out of place might tip everything over?
“Hey, sorry, excuse me?—”
I look up just in time to see the other intern—Eric, maybe—stumbling as he tries to juggle a cup of coffee, his laptop, and what looks like a breakfast sandwich he definitely didn’t need this late in the day.
The coffee slips.
Time slows.
The cup tips, spinning in midair before splattering across my desk like a crime scene. It hits my notes first. Then the corner of my tablet and down the side of my laptop. My pens roll away.
The pages soak instantly, black ink bleeding out into unreadable messes.
“Oh my god,” Eric gasps, fumbling napkins. “Lyla, I’m so—shit, I’m so sorry?—”
I don’t move.
I just stare.
My whole body locks up. My chest tightens.
I try to grab the tablet to get it out of the way, but my fingers slip. I pat at the notepad with one of Eric’s napkins but it’s useless, it’s ruined, it’s all?—
My breathing stutters.
Fast. Sharp. Out of rhythm.
It’s just paper. Just notes. I can rewrite them. I can?—
