It seemed as if there was a faint line etched into the hard carpet from where he'd been pacing. Back and forth. There wasn't one cell of his body that wasn't alert and ready. Back and forth.

With his hands clasped behind his back, the occasional palm-to-the-face kind of look, and head bowed, eyes watching his feet as he paced. Back and forth. Often, this young man, who could've been in his early twenties, would look up at the serious looking black clock mounted on the stale white wall behind it. Biting his lip, searching the clock, as if he expected it to tell him something, or do something than hang stoically on the wall. Back and forth. Back and forth.