His pencil is trembling, drumming a ceaseless best against the table. The floor seems to be pushing upward on his foot, bouncing it as his mind turns and twists and tumbles over him as he searches and digs and claws through his tired, panting brain, for a savior, a saint, some sort of salvation, an answer to a question on a test that’s staring him in the face, it’s I’s boring holes into him. The walls, pulsating, and with every shaky breath they take, they come in, closer, crushing.