I take off my sound dampening headphones, stretch and rub my eyes. Good grief! What’s the time? My eyes are so blurry I can’t read the clock. I listen for the sounds of co-workers and as I look, it occurs to me that no one else is here. Picking up my bag I head out of the office. The building is preternaturally quiet.
The lift takes me to the ground floor. The security guard isn’t at his station and the front doors are open. I walk straight out onto the street.
Everything is covered in a soft, grey pallor. There’s a chill and the air is still like a pause between moments. Not a car passes. I look around for signs of people. The homeless guy’s bedding is next to the store front window, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
I’m coddled in the grey. The fog is thickening, I keep walking, then I hear it. God are you following me? I stop. The footsteps stop. I wait for them to start again, but they don’t. I recommence walking and my footsteps echo, crunching with each foot fall. The traffic light tings and shines like a fuzzy ball of green. I guess I’m halfway across the road but it’s hard to know when I can barely see. I hear an approaching car and stop to gauge its direction. A voice orders me to get out of the way. The car engine growls as it changes gears, it sounds as though it's speeding up heading straight towards me but my feet are lead weights and I’m running in slow motion. A pair of hands jut through the fog and haul me onto the kerb. Relieved, I hug the waist of the person who saved me. The feeling is so blissful I don’t want to let go but the arms slip from me and I notice the fog has lifted and the streets are dark. I’m standing all alone. Pinpoints of light grow in front of me and someone is calling my name.
I’m lying on my back, my mother and sister lean forwards to look at me. I sob. My mother stands and hugs me, mumbles something about being afraid they were going to lose me.
A voice says, “Some people take longer than others. She’s alright.”
My mother says, “Debbie, it’s me. How do you feel?”
I can barely get out the words, “My throat’s sore.”
My sister says, “Tonsillectomies will do that to you.”
