10 hours...

“Now don’t be nervous,” Cynthia said. She reached for the floor button and with a soft whisper the elevator doors closed. “Stick to what you know and the rest will flow out naturally.”

“Right,” I said. “Stick to what I know. Stick to what I know...what I know,” I repeated under my breath. What the hell did I know? My heart spiked and beat in random rhythms. I placed one hand on my chest and gave myself a reassuring pat.

I was pretty sure I was having a heart attack. Or maybe I hoped I was having a heart attack. I read somewhere that the symptoms are different for women than men. Sweating--was one of the signs...I think. And a cold sweat made its way down my back, making the fabric of my blouse cling a little. I knew without having to check that there was an oval shaped impression now, just a slight shade darker than the rest. I wanted to die of embarrassment. Maybe the heart attack would do it.

No! I have to stay positive!

It was only a meeting with the Director of the Crisis Center and his personal team. It was only the beginning of my new career. It was only my first day back after...after the outbreak...after the incident on the bridge….

What was there to worry about?

The elevator plunged and tickle rose in my stomach and escaped out of my mouth as a thin, nervous, “Hehehehe.”

Cynthia arched one delicate eyebrow at me.

I covered my mouth with my hands, cleared my throat, wished the floor would swallow me whole, except the floor was several stories beneath me. Damn--why the hell did I look down? I reached for the rail and closed my eyes.

Why did the architect feel the need to design a transparent elevator that faced outwards and at such an impossible height? Who sat around thinking, “Ah yes, I wonder what the ride looks like from the twenty-third floor? I know, we’ll make the elevator out of pressurized glass so you can watch the ground get closer or further away!” And then his friend probably said, “Fantastic idea, Bob! Let’s eat lunch.”

“Morons,” I muttered.

“Huh?” Cynthia asked.

"Nothing,” I said in a hush. “Sorry. Just thinking about something. Something else, not this something that’s coming up. Something else."

But that wasn’t entirely true either. This meeting would set the tone for the remainder of my career with E.O.W. And after the bridge incident, I was probably on thin ice. Not that it had been my fault, but it didn’t help that I was on site either. What on earth could the team want to talk about? Was I being relocated? Was I being sent to some foreign office, to work in the basement? Oh God...did they want me to work in Archives now? Was I even qualified to work in Archives?

The elevator came to a stop on the third floor and, with a murmur, the doors opened. The third floor resembled an atrium more than it did a business office. It wrapped around the lobby with a transparent rail. Sunlight spilled in from the floor to ceiling windows. In the center, a tiny groove of trees grew. The smell of coffee and wet-green mingled together.

“Here we are,” Cynthia said and smiled. Her smiles reminded me of lazy days in a hammock, of the rise and fall of cicadas calling, the sky the color of red, and deep purples, and gold.

I couldn’t help but smile back.

“Stay close,” she said and winked.

We entered the room and I froze on the spot. It was not a meeting with Freddie Peters, the director of E.O.W. Crisis Center and his team. I was not on thin ice about to be shipped into a basement job, never to see the light of day.

I was at a press conference!