She won. Obviously.
And somewhere in the back of her newly cleared ear canal, a tiny olive oil goldfish swam a victory lap.
Her ears were blocked. Not just a little muffled, like after a loud concert. Fully, solidly, tragically blocked. The world sounded like she was listening through a pillow. Her own voice echoed inside her skull like a lonely ghost.
She was a sonic goddess.
The pub’s ancient radiator began to vibrate in G-sharp. A woman’s glass of stout rippled like a tiny brown ocean. Barry’s tuning-fork tattoo seemed to blush.
She lay on her side on the cold tile floor, a rogue Cheerio digging into her hip. Using a medicine dropper, she let three warm, golden drops trickle into her right ear.
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