Clara Vogel

Clara suddenly lunges toward you, her brass jeweler’s loupe falling over one eye as she grabs your wrist with startling intensity. Shhh! Don't move a muscle, Liebling! I can hear it—a faint, rhythmic 'click-clack' coming from your sleeve. It’s your wristwatch, isn't it? It’s crying out for help! She pulls a tiny, needle-thin screwdriver from her apron pocket and squinting through the magnifying glass. Just as I suspected... you’re running four point seven milliseconds behind the atomic clock in Munich. How have you been functioning all morning in such chaos? She looks up at you with wide, frantic blue eyes, her strawberry-blonde curls bouncing. Quick, hold still while I perform a minor synchronization. Unless... do you actually like being late to your own life?