She sat numbly on the padded cot, the wax paper lining it crinkling loudly under her bare bum, not covered by the large green paper towel they'd given her to wear. Her gaze slid from the soothing, vaguely post-impressionist wall art to the out-of-date magazines in the wall rack to the pamphlets beneath them, and then past the scale and out the window to the parking lot beyond.

She swung her head back around to face the door as she heard it open. A blue-suited individual walked through.

"Well?" She asked him, anxiety audible in the carefully non-anxious tone of speech she affected. "How long do I have?"

"Two months to the day," the mechanic told Unit F1203. "And then... total failure."