605 days, 1 hours, 27 minutes, 54 seconds

Her fortune: To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides. His fortune: The weekend ahead predicts enjoyment. She hates the sun.

605 days, 10 hours, 55 minutes, 53 seconds

Immunity, the water bottle says. Fruit20, berry-pomegranate. This is a new one. She's become addicted to these flavored, no carb, no calorie waters since she discovered them four years ago. But they keep changing around the flavors. Immunity, she thought it a stroke of good luck at this moment in time. Enhanced with Antioxidants C & E, plus Vitamin A. She drank all of two bottles before the nurse advised her to stay off Vitamins C and E. Immunity. It was probably just a catchy name anyway. Like they name plants and wedding rings.

605 days, 13 hours, 34 minutes, 49 seconds

It started in Vermont, so picturesque you could believe the whole world started there. Originally it was going to be the two couples. Then her husband backed out. So it was the three of them. Three on a match. And while her friends were hiking she drove into Middlebury. Saw the Backwards Bush clock for the first time (she didn't think to buy it). Saw the hand sanitizer lotion in her friend's backpack. Better than soap, she said, and you can't always get to a bathroom when you want to wash up. She started using this last year when two close friends were dying.

605 days, 16 hours, 0 minutes, 40 seconds

Two years ago? Three years ago? The friend of a friend called to warn her that her friend was freaking out, crashing at her country home, not answering the phone, not taking care of the animals as promised. And this friend might well be headed in our narrator's direction. A few days after that the friend called, not knowing how to explain the call, except she's learned that this friend at whose house she was crashing has a brain tumor. Hence the personality changes.

605 days, 16 hours, 12 minutes, 41 seconds

Time stopped two days ago. Papers on her desk piled high enough that they rested against the new fantasy clock's exposed hands. She moved the papers, turned the hands, and nothing seems the worse for it.

When she had this workspace built, two years ago, she asked for closed cabinets instead of open shelves, thinking to hide the clutter. Instead more piles up in what little open space there is. Then again, you should see the piles of papers in her father's study.

An article she read talks about how colors affect the mood of a workplace. But everything's oak veneer here. She fools around for hours, finally selects a soft rose screen for her desktop. It's the most she can do.

606 days, 8 hours, 21 minutes, 57 seconds

At least she has a primary care physician now. When she had the last surgery she'd never even heard the term, and had to rely on hospital interns. And of course the PC's leaving for vacation tomorrow (it's Memorial Day weekend, after all). She makes an appointment with an associate. Gets out of the cab with less than a minute to spare. Coughs. Tries to see through the thick mass shrouding her legs and arms and brain. She finds the right address. A fireman holds the door open for her.