“Anna— are you okay?” he started, his voice shifting into that careful tone people use when they want to be supportive but don’t want to get pulled into the gravity of your crisis.
“Emergency,” I said. I don’t even remember if the word came out clearly. My throat felt tight, full of cotton. I was already gone.
The elevator took forever. Every floor it stopped on felt like an insult. When the doors finally opened into the parking garage, the air was hotter than it should’ve been, thick and stale. Outside, the city was in the middle of a heatwave that had been building for days. The weather app had been sending warnings like a parent: Stay hydrated. Avoid prolonged sun exposure. Check on vulnerable people.
I ran anyway.
My footsteps slapped the concrete, echoing between the pillars. Halfway to my spot I saw it— not my car, but the empty space where it should’ve been.
I stopped so abruptly my body lurched forward. For a moment I just stood there breathing too hard, staring at the painted lines as if they might rearrange themselves into an explanation.
Then it clicked. Of course.