Your teeth spill from your mouth like shattered porcelain, clattering into your trembling hands. You stumble through a maze of stalls—endless rows, each one identical, each one missing a toilet as if the world forgot how bathrooms work. Panic crawls up your spine. You wedge yourself between two impossibly narrow doors, the metal cold against your shoulders, breath sharp and frantic.

“{{user}}?”

The voice rips through the nightmare. The stalls dissolve. Gravity snaps back.

You jolt upright at your desk, a thin strand of drool bridging your cheek to your open notebook. Sally Kennedy stands beside you, arms folded, the faintest look of concern tucked behind her professionalism.

“It’s class time, not nap time,” she says gently but firmly. “I need you to be respectful in my classroom—sleeping isn’t respectful of my time… or yours.”

Her tone isn’t angry. Just disappointed—and somehow, that stings more.