Trepidation.

In less than one shake of a lamb’s tail, Nora’s head flushes with something internal and burning like an electromagnetic bolt of radiation from Lucifer’s personal laser-pointer. She spins like a whirling Dervish on rollerblades in a banana peel factory towards the half-open doorway and sees a murderous shape-

-It’s a man!

A gorgeous man, with two piercing opaque emerald eyes. A dark, burley mustache in the fashion of teamsters hangs below his aquiline nose. Hair black as oil and reflective like the gulf of Mexico after the BP oil disaster. His skin’s hot chocolate.

I had no idea Tom Hiddleston had a swarthy, South American nephew. I shall call you, Enríque Hiddlestón.

Enríque's wearing a tight pair of black slacks, a grey long sleeve button-up, a hip holster, an enameled shield-shaped badge over his-

-Oh.

¡Thanks Satan!

Upon further reflection Nora sees that the officer’s debonair visage bares that old familiar, deny-me-and-be-doomed-expression worn exclusively by cops, and people who walk in on their dead coworker’s open-casket desecration at the hands of some dim, hoydenish goon.

He’s going to kill you.

“Miss…” speaks the officer, pushing the second half of the reposing room door open, revealing the beat-red face of the marionette-looking mortuary makeup artist standing behind him whose name Nora may or may not have already forgotten.

Correction, they’re going to kill you.

“…would you mind stepping out real quick for a chat?”

Nora wants to run, flee! Head-first out the nearest window if the whole confrontation could be avoided. Once outside she could search for an an open grave to crawl inside and let the billowing crematorium chimney bury her with white, hot ash.

Officer hotpants mochaccino cocks his head and cracks a near microscopic smile.

“It’ll be quick. I Promise.”

Best case scenario.

“Of course!” Nora chirped as if nothing was wrong, all the while screaming in her brain as humans are known to do in this particular situation.