The LED panel showed one minute. She knew that the signal was not to be taken too seriously. Public transport companies often had its own system to define the length of a minute. She paced back and forth on the platform, as if getting warm to cover the distance from her final stop to her office as fast as she could. She mentally rehearsed the way up (hopefully the lift was working), along the long dark corridor to reach her locker and grab her stuff. How many minutes would still be left? Would she be able to quickly go to the bathroom and rush to the floor to log into the system on time? She knew that day, like many others, she had to forego the coffee and the greeting to her colleague in the other team.

Her work material under her arms, she scanned the floor to look for a free desk, with only half a hope to find something closer to the natural light.  Settling for a darker spot next to a friendly colleague, she sat down with the usual feeling of constriction caused by the constant log in and out in the telephone system. Like a life-saving heart monitor, the System would scan her functions for the next 8 hours, each breach of scheduled minutely recorded and punished. She was though free to breath in and out as many times she wished, even sigh, and she could choose at will where to locate her breathing; The Company though recommended a belly breath, to better handle difficult calls. Sometimes she felt like rebelling though, and she conducted a whole complaining call breathing all the way up to her neck. Sometimes, she felt that was her only freedom.