Leaning back against one of the dryers, Natasha folds her arms over her chest and settles in to wait. She distracts herself, counting breaths, the number of times the dryer thumps behind her at the start of a new revolution, how many individual voices she thinks she can pick out of the cacophony as it passes. It helps, and by the time the voices in the hall start to die down, she seems less on edge.

"Give it another few minutes, maybe?"