4:56 p.m.

She needed a new bandage. Her hand wrapped in red, with a belt squeezing. During the past hour, she shifted from watching the clock hands tick to monitoring how far the blood seeped through the towel and how light her head got. She swore to always buy her bagels pre-sliced.

She counted eight crying babies, 23 ice packs, and 12 patients asking to speak to a manager. At least, she had a seat facing the only window. The sun’s descent for the day was just starting.

Just then, the lights went out and flicked back on. If she had her eyes closed, she wouldn’t have noticed, but the crowd’s groans and questions gave it away. The attendant standing behind the plexiglass pushed open the panel. The broken and huddled mass fell silent. Even the babies knew to stop wailing. The nurse looked to her colleagues, exchanged murmurs, and looked out to those waiting.

“Hello, everyone,” she projected. “We don’t know what just happened, but we’re searching for answers. Please be patient. Thank you.”

There must be some psychological concept to explain the mass hysteria sparked by confusion and waiting. She returned to staring out the window, as the panels closed again. Her corner of the waiting room was like a yoga retreat compared to the hurricane brewing on the other end. People pacing, couples bickering, babies crying again. She looked at the clock. 4:56 p.m.

A soon-to-be rioter knocked on the panel. The office’s voice put down the phone in her hand and opened the channel of communication. “How can I help you?”

“What the hell is going on?” The woman asked, while her child tugged on her pant leg.

“Ma’am, we don’t yet know. We’re trying to figure it out. Please be patient. Thank you.” She closed off the woman and got back to her phone call.

The rebel knocked again, shaking the glass within its track.

“Ma’am,” the representative covered the phone and spoke through the glass. “I will update you once I have answers,” she finished with a muffled voice.

A transparent sheet of plexiglass can do so much to distance people.

She looked at the clock. 4:56 p.m. She looked again. 4:56 p.m. She whipped around and winced in pain. With eyes on the clock above the room’s simmering half, she read, “4:56.” She stood up, held her wound close to her, and walked to the counter. After she knocked with her good hand, the attendant said, “Ma’am, I cannot tell you anything new right now. Please have --”

“I know something,” she started. “But it might not be anything.”

The attendant pushed back the glass and leaned in.

“The clocks aren’t moving.”

“What?”

“The clocks aren’t moving. See?” She pointed to the clocks behind her and then dug through her pockets. “I wonder.” She looked at her phone. “My phone too. 4:56.”

The attendant whispered to her colleague and then turned back to her. “Thank you for letting us know, ma’am.”

“Of course.” The panel closed, and she returned to her seat. But she kept shifting. The chair could never be comfortable. Maybe it was her wound, her new discovery, the waiting, the confusion. She shot up, scooted past the others and their ailments, and used her back to open the door. The vibrant sky taunted her. Her fellow pedestrians chugged along, as if their machines never stopped working. She sat down at the nearest bench and breathed in. The air within a six-foot radius was all hers. She never prayed or meditated, but she closed her eyes. A nap for the mind. Fifteen seconds passed but weighed like forty.

Just then, a static fell over the crowd. Her eyes opened. The passersby looked around but didn’t stop.

“Everyone,” a voice covered the city, from a sound system they never knew existed. The voice’s owner panted into the microphone. The crowd stopped now, except for the few wearing headphones. “We’re being taken over. Run, hide, pro--” The sound ceased. The silence froze the crowd, as if it casted a spell. A common tremble vibrated through everyone. The only difference between the people was the rate at which they turned their heads. Some were quick like a squirrel. Others slow, afraid of unknown motion-sensing cameras.

A new voice introduced itself to the sound system with a clearing of the throat. Everyone stood straighter than they ever thought they could. “Hello, all.” They greeted their listeners like a robot would. “You may have noticed the clocks stopped working.” They enunciated each sound, allotted the same amount of time for every syllable, and maintained a monotone. “We are the ones keeping time. You do not have that privilege anymore.”

She scanned those near her, her hand a distant memory. She prayed she didn’t look as worried as her neighbors.

“If you join our crusade, then you will be in power again.” As if rehearsed, half of the crowd took guns out of various hiding places on their persons. Pockets, pant legs, jackets. They proceeded to cock and aim their weapons at the other half. A young man, maybe old enough to have had his first legal drink the week before, stared down his barrel at her. He took half a second to notice her red and wrapped hand. She remembered the bloody thing that got her there in the first place.

“Can you help me?” She asked him.

“If you join our crusade,” he replied.

She scanned her surroundings again. Assumedly loaded firearms. Trembles and fear. Assumedly ransacked government. Working clocks, unattainable. She could live off of sunrises and sunsets and bleed until she got lucky and ran into a free medical professional.

“Can you get me to a doctor?” She asked.

“Yes.”

“How quickly?”

“I have a loaded gun, and we’re standing in front of a hospital,” he started. “Pretty quick.”

What good would she be if dead?

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Good choice.” He put his gun to his side, grabbed her, and strode to the hospital. Within three steps, gunshots fired. She winced and never turned around. Forward, ahead, in line. She had a new life and was on her way to a new hand.