Of that little walk-run you have to do when you’re beating the Just a woman who loves paw dogs books tea flowers shirt clock as tentacles of takeaway coffee run down your knuckles. Of McCallister family-ing passport-first toward a departure gate with a wheelie suitcase nipping your heels. Of pelting toward a closing elevator door. Time is a quiche, and it’s all about that slice of the morning when you’re making up lost time and chanting “keys, money, phone” as you panic-shimmy into your jeans. Lateness breathing down your neck. Triple-checking the time in the back of an Uber, willing the numbers backward. The key to feeling alive isn’t being in the moment—it’s being a few minutes behind it. You can’t have Danger as a middle name with ample wriggle room in your commute. Running late is a drug, and I microdose myself behind schedule in pursuit of the next fix. It’s the specific texture of a dash that’s addictive, that anxious will I won’t I?, the jeopardy.