The carpet smelled like yeast and when Jo lifted her hands from it, her palms were itchy, pockmarked, with small curly hairs stuck to them. She rested her neck against the back wall of the elevator, her body heat warmed the metal. When she stretched her legs, her pedicured feet hit the polished steel door with her knees still bent. Mac rested his damp forehead above the control panel, a trail of sweat ran between the buttons and collected at a broken one labeled “Help.”
Excerpted from "Going Down" by Ezra Fox. Published in its entirety by 10,000 Tons of Black Ink
