Transit, 17 (Patreon)

Lori, her thoughts spiraling, reached out once again for the hotel phone. Her hands, usually so deft and sure, fumbled with the receiver, her new nails clicking clumsily against the plastic. She dialed the reception with determined jabs, a small victory against the lengthy red impediments at her fingertips.

The line crackled to life, but only the looping melody of an automated Russian voice greeted her—no human warmth, no understanding, no help. She redialed, her frustration growing, but the outcome was the same, a barrier of language and technology she couldn't breach.

With a defeated sigh, she hung up the phone. It was clear she wouldn't find assistance at the end of this line. Her eyes fell to the array of unfamiliar clothes spilling from the suitcase—none of them made for the discreet buttoning or buckling she took for granted. Each article was a challenge, a reminder of the delicate tasks now made Herculean by her extravagant nails.

Lori hovered over the suitcase, her mind racing for a workaround. Her usual precision was a thing of the past; each attempt to fasten a button or secure a buckle ended in failure, her nails either too cumbersome or too fragile to apply the necessary force.

Standing there, she felt a surge of helplessness. Her independence, something she prized, was being eroded by inches of acrylic. She needed to get to the reception, to speak to someone, anyone, who could help her unravel this mystery.

Resolve hardening within her, Lori chose the simplest garment that required no fastenings…