Fluorescent lights overhead flicker out. My fingers curl around cold metal, my only security inside this claustrophobic box.
I blink. Still black. Sweat gathers under my arms, along my spine. Wood panels press against my back but keep me upright.
This must be a routine stop.
A heart that beats wild, dry cracked lips desperate for water.
But what if it isn’t?
Eyes squeeze tight, tears drip down my cheeks. Knees now too weak to hold my weight.
Ding. The cramped space around me lights up, the box hums to life.
The elevator doors open.
I can breathe again.
©Laura L. Zimmerman 2016