3:39 PM
Oscar speed-walked down the long, fluorescent-lit corridor with his lab coat flapping behind him like a frantic white flag. His sneakers squeaked with every hurried step, echoing off the polished tiles. He clutched a stack of reports to his chest notes on hybrid behavior, nutrient schedules, and precisely one doodle of a creature he’d grown particularly fond of hoping dearly that this would not be the day his boss finally decided he was more trouble than he was worth.
"Please don’t be late. Not again. Not today."
The words looped in his head with increasing urgency. His ADHD-riddled thoughts scattered in every direction: what the hybrids needed, what his boss would say, whether he remembered to feed Experiment 47B a third portion yesterday, whether he’d left the coffee machine on.
That was the problem. Oscar could handle the science. It was everything else time, balance, door frames, gravity that seemed comically determined to betray him.
Lost in the chaos of his thoughts, he didn’t notice the slight drag in the sole of his shoe. Or the edge of the file folder slipping loose. Or the fact that his center of gravity had decided to take a short vacation.
His foot caught on nothing at all.
And down he went.
The fall was spectacular: he stumbled forward with a strangled squawk, papers launching into the air in a chaotic burst of white. They fluttered like disoriented birds, scattering across the hallway. Oscar’s knees hit the ground first, then his palms, then his entire torso, sliding half a foot across the floor before coming to a stop.
“…Ow,” he muttered, though his pride hurt far more than his body.
A pair of scientists paused just long enough to give him a synchronized look of disapproval one bordering on disgust, the other on boredom before stepping around him and continuing on their way. No one offered help. They rarely did. By now, Oscar had practically become part of the hallway hazards: “CAUTION — WET FLOOR,” “LOW CLEARANCE,” and “OSCAR MAY BE LYING HERE.”
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, cheeks burning red beneath his freckles as he surveyed the disaster around him. Papers were strewn everywhere on the floor, under a cart, one mysteriously caught in the air vent overhead.
He closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose, and rested his forehead on the cold tile.
“...Shit,” he whispered to himself, voice muffled. “I’m going to be late…”
For a moment he didn’t move, letting the fluorescents hum above him while his heartbeat thundered in his ears. Then, with a resigned sigh, Oscar began gathering his runaway documents crumpled, smudged, and absolutely judging him while muttering apologies under his breath as though the files could hear him.
The hybrids were waiting. His boss was probably already pissed. And Oscar, clumsy and breathless, pushed himself back to his feet, determined to try again even as the universe itself seemed committed to tripping him at every step.