Her stopwatch glowed in the pitch black. Two minutes. Not exactly a world record, but it was their agreed upon time. And yet…
She reached back, scraped her nails against the stainless-steel locker. No answer.
Three minutes.
She used her fist this time, pounding against the inside of the door. If he was playing a joke, it wasn’t funny. Plus, they were going to be late for pathology class.
Four minutes.
Heavy breathing. Pulse racing. The stench of disinfectant growing.
When she got out of this morgue locker, she was going to kill him.
A big if…
A bigger when…
The Weekday One Hundred 