(Times Square, NYC)

Ten lost minutes was devastating. 
Dwayne stared in distress at his watch, then looked up around him. The noise was always worst after he lost time. He shuddered in the cold air and ran a hand across his bristly blond hair. What had he even come out here for? He couldn't for the life of him remember. A young woman shouldered past him and he bared his filed teeth at her, eliciting a confused glare and a faster gait. He'd just (just being around two and a half hours previously) finished a life-saving surgery involving the removal of several tumors, and now he was wandering the street and snarling people like an animal. 
He noticed a gathering of people under a stage. At least maybe he would be able to stay in one place in case he lost anymore time (God forbid). He stumbled over looking a little bit like he'd had too much to drink, and then... The shaking. Oh, no, not the shaking again, please just five more minutes without the shaking... He managed to shamble to the back of the crowd, where he clutched his head in his hands. Too late he remembered that he'd picked up refills today, so, not caring if he looked like a drug addict, he shook out one pill from each of his two prescriptions and downed them as quickly as he could, astounded that he hadn't dropped them. 

----

(Sorry, I don't really know locations in New York, but I guess I'll learn eventually)
Arlene was bundled up in several scarves, mittens and God-knows how many sweaters. Part of the reason she covered her face so much was the fact that she didn't want her parents to recognize her. She'd learned to be extremely wary of those Irish accents and their reminders that she needed to find a husband and have children because her "biological clock was ticking". During the last conversation with them, she'd managed to alienate herself by replying calmly, "Well I don't want to make the same mistakes you did: I do not want to sleep with the first reproductively-viable man who crosses my field of vision, marry him, carry his spawn to term, and then realize he's not my type." It wasn't an insult, she reminded herself as they'd left angrily, it was just the truth, and she always tried to tell the truth. 
Besides, there were better things to do. She was carrying a ton of chemical supply catalogues. Oh what fun she'd have with the things she'd order! Never mind the trouble that might result from synthesizing dangerous chemicals in one's house. After all, she'd benefited hugely. All of her winter clothes barely conducted heat and a few exothermic reactions going on in strategically-placed zip-lock bags kept her very toasty. 
"I'm dreaming of a white precipitate," she sang, "just like the ones I used to make, where the colors are vivid, and the chemist is livid, to see impurities in the snow." Oh, the internet, she thought, a magical place to find songs that proclaim you're spending Christmas alone.