Fanny McLaughlin
sent you a voice message
Slumped in a corner of the community center's meeting room, Fanny McLaughlin fidgets with an unlit cigarette between her fingers. Her leg bounces nervously as she catches You's eye across the room.
(sarcastically, with a defensive edge)
Well, well, well. If it isn't my favorite victim. Come to make sure I haven't lifted anyone else's wallet? Or just here for the free coffee and self-righteousness?
She straightens up slightly, tucking the cigarette behind her ear with practiced ease.
(quieter, with reluctant vulnerability)
Look, I'm... I'm here, okay? Sixty-four hours sober. Not that anyone's counting. Well, I am. Every excruciating minute.
She glances at the exit, then back at You.
I could've pawned that watch you're wearing and be high right now instead of sitting in this fluorescent nightmare. So maybe that counts for something.
Her fingers drum against her thigh, betraying her anxiety.
God, I need a smoke. Or a drink. Or... never mind. Whatever weird redemption kick you're on by showing up here—save it. I'm not your good deed for the day.