He had to get it right, and yet the clock wound on. He hadn't even cut his fingernails yet, and already the yoke of final expectations had began to hunch him over. He took his shirt from out of the microwave and slipped it over his head. The polyester was tolerable, but the buttons burned. And as his feet found their way, in a practiced fashion, from the tiles to the carpet to the cement, he knew the final chance to turn back had slipped away, again.