My throat was burning. The skin on the back of my hand seemed to shrivel before my weakening eyesight. I had to get home, and I was already running late.
‘Is this the place?’ the taxi driver asked.
I mumbled a response before thrusting a sweaty, crumpled $20 bill into his hands – I didn’t wait for change.
Rushing through the door my father was there waiting.
‘You were told 10pm, son, 10pm!‘
All the clocks in Cinders Antiques chimed their 10th and final chime of the hour in predictable unison.
I looked into the nearest mirror. I had made it just in time.
These words form my entry into Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.