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The golden numbers on the elevator display ticked upward with agonizing slowness. 48 49 50. Megan Collins stared at her reflection in the polished brass doors, barely recognizing the woman looking back. The uniform was the first thing that always caught her eye. A shapeless slate gray thing that smelled permanently of industrial starch and other people's desperation. It hung loosely off her frame, hiding the sharp protrusion of her collar bones and the hollow curve of her hips. She adjusted the white apron tied around her waist, her fingers trembling slightly. It wasn't just the exhaustion, though that was a constant companion these days. It was the hunger, a dull, gnawing ache in the pit of her stomach that she had learned to ignore over the last few months.