With her arms overflowing with cleaning supplies — bottles of cleaning fluid, a broom, a vacuum, and a dusting cloth all caught in her petite arms — it was no wonder that something would fall. Her mind was caught up with her past, ghosts that lurked in the corners of her mind stealing her attention, when she tripped. The toe of her shoe caught in the cord of the vacuum held in her arms, the black cord dragging along the ground as if to mimic some biblical snake, and she tumbled forward. “Dammit,” she spat out, already sure she had collected new bruises along with a pair of scraped knees. Gently pushing herself up, she surveyed the damage. The supplies were a mess, strewn across the lobby’s tiled floors, wreaking havoc in what was meant to be an elegant atmosphere. “I’m sorry,” she quickly apologized to no one in particular, just a habit she couldn’t quite break. “Sorry,” she repeated, reaching down to begin lifting the supplies once more.