"There was blood on the toilet seat," she said out loud "a smell of burnt popcorn pervaded throughout; the alarm wailed its desolate banshee howl through now-empty cubicles. The grass was wet, the air smelled of French fries and stale cigarettes; a dozen little chimneys in their huddle against the wind. The sun, which had not yet shone its face, drew the veil tighter as the fat wet drops began to fall." She turned her face away. "This day can fuck right off."