numbers continued scrolling, 20 . . . 21 . . . “You mean
attorney?”
“Yeah that,” said the young man. “I couldn’t
think of the word for a minute. I’m really tired to-
day,” he added, almost defensively.
The woman said nothing. It was odd that
he would forget the word attorney when he had re-
membered dermatologist just seconds before.
“Me, I’m in for a mole thingy, on my back. My
doc said it could be cancerous, but I don’t know,” he
shrugged, and slurped more tea.
The woman glared at the gradually rising
numbers again, and the elevator responded nega-
tively to the provocation. The lights flickered, once,
and the compartment stopped moving. The floor
level read 28.
“Uh . . . did the elevator break down?” he
asked the young man. The lights flickered again.
Stay calm, the woman told herself. Her first
thought, of course, was the assignment. There’s still
time.
“Don’t move,” she said to the young man. “If
the elevator is broken, we could be in serious dan-
ger.”
“Oh frick!” he clutched at his tea. The wom-
an, slightly amused by his childish vocabulary, cau-
tiously stretched out and pressed the Open Door
button, careful to keep her fake files from shifting.
Nothing happened. The door remained sealed, and
every horrible pessimistic thought of snapping ele-
vator cables and plunging metal death traps came
back to mind, now very vivid.
“Let’s try . . . this,” she pressed the number
28, but the door wouldn’t budge. The lights flickered
again, and the young man whimpered.
“Oh no . . . I’m gonna be late for my appoint-
ment.” He glanced anxiously at the ceiling, practical-
ly radiating anxiety.
Stifling an eyeroll, the woman asked,
“When’s your appointment?”
“Six fifteen,” he said. “I think, lemme check.”
He grabbed at his phone, and the screen reflected
off his ridiculously unnecessary sunglasses. “Yeah,
that’s right.”
“It’s only five forty-two,” said the woman.
“That’s plenty of time.”
“You’re right,” said the young man, stowing
his phone again. “We should be out of here by then,
right?”
“Right . . . ” repeated the woman, her hand
hovering above the panel of buttons. Plenty of time.
No, too much time.
Her intuition was tingling. Something was
off. Didn’t he say earlier he was running late?
The young man caught her stare, but didn’t
comment. “Shouldn’t we try the emergency but-
ton?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, and turned back
to the buttons, but not before noticing something
in the young man’s pocket, exposed by his tucked-
up shirt. Her blood ran cold, but she hid her shock
under years of practice and calmly pressed the red
emergency button.
“It’s not working,” she said, as the button
clicked with all the enthusiasm of roadkill.
“Do we call 911?” said the young man. The
woman filtered his words, trying to pick out clues,
any hint of falsity, but there was none.
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