​

The man stepped out of the elevator with a neutral expression and a shoulder bag. He was polite enough to warn me:

​

“Don’t get in this one; it’s stuck on this floor.”

​

I thanked him for the tip and waited beside him for the next one. It was the fourteenth floor, and I had just left a doctor’s appointment. When the next empty elevator arrived, we stepped in together. I was already calculating my day: fifteen minutes to get to work, just the right time to leave mid-afternoon—enough time to take one kid to gymnastics and the other to swimming class.

​

Then came the jolt—two floors down, into a void. The elevator stopped. So did my breathing.

I looked at the man, but he was still tapping on his phone, unfazed, as if this was just another part of his daily routine. Not mine.

​

“Hey again. Hi. Okay. I’m not nervous or anything. I just feel like taking off my shoes.”

I slipped off my heels, planting my feet firmly on the floor, searching for balance against the panic of knowing I was now dangling twelve floors above the ground. I felt better sitting on the floor (which, if you think about it, isn’t even a floor. It’s just a flat surface that separates you from death).

​

I continued:

​

“It’s just… well—” I felt my heart speeding up. “I was literally leaving my psychiatrist’s office.”

He lowered his eyes to me and put his phone away.

​

“This happens all the time, no problem. Let me just call Andrea and let her know we’re stuck.”

He made the call, but he didn't say anything. He kept punching in what looked like random numbers before slipping his phone back into his pocket.

​

All I prayed for was for the lights to stay on. Thankfully, the fan was still working, and since this was a shopping center elevator, it was spacious enough for about fifteen people. There was room. I could even lie down if I needed to. Everything was fine.

​

“So,” I said, “I’m just gonna take a Xanax and enjoy this sudden break.” I took two, just in case.

The emergency pill had been prescribed last year after I developed panic attacks from getting trapped in two different elevators—one of those times with my dog, who breathes like he’s taking the last sip of oxygen left on Earth.

​

Xanax kicks in almost instantly. My sister taught me to take deep breaths until it does its job.

The man seemed wary of my reaction.

​

“What did your psychiatrist say?”

​

“That it would be best if I stopped getting stuck in elevators. But it seems like I have a thing, like karma, for sudden elevator stops.”

​

He typed something into his phone.

​

“Tell me more about the panic attacks—” it almost sounded like, “let’s chat so you can hire me as your next therapist.”

​

“They started when I lived in Orlando.”

​

“I have a friend who lives close to Orlando.”

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“Oh yeah? Where?”

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“Can’t remember the name of the town. He’s been there for a long time now.”

​

He sat down next to me. I caught a whiff of his deodorant from his polo shirt. Nice smell. Sitting side by side, we started making small talk. What else could we do?

​

My breathing slowed.

​

He told me about his family; I told him about my kids. He asked if I was divorced; he was too.

It’s weird how two people can share so much just because they’re stuck in the same space at the same time. He was even good-looking. Maybe under different circumstances, I could have done a more thorough assessment to set him up with my widowed friend, who was looking for a fling.

​

I told him I was a journalist. He said his ex-wife was too. Turns out, she and I had graduated from the same college, he told me. And that his mother’s cousin may have been a former colleague of mine at an old newspaper where I freelanced. I don’t actually remember him, but it was a long time ago.

​

He told me he was a psychologist, working with children in the building. His hobby was playing chess. He pulled out a mini magnetic chessboard from his bag. I could also see some colorful wires when he opened it. He was probably one of those amazing guys who play with kids while secretly getting them to open up.

​

I picked black. He played white. We started our game.

​

A move with my pawn, and his knight jumped in an L-shape. I could tell he would go for his queen. Aggressive player. I liked it.

​

Then another jolt—this time, we dropped a couple more floors.

​

I couldn’t hold back the panic scream—the kind we usually reserve for rollercoasters.

​

He grabbed onto the handrails. The chessboard fell. I jumped up and started pounding on the door.

The worst part of fear is not being able to control your own fear. Your next reaction is always the source of the panic. Not knowing what your body will do next traps your mind in a dark loop, your heart racing. Your back goes cold. Your neck too. Breathing shortens. People with panic run barefoot with no destination, as if they could leave their soul behind—along with their fears.

​

He called on that damn phone again.

​

“They just fixed it,” he announced with pleasure and relief.

​

In the next few seconds, the elevator finally started moving until it landed safely on the ground floor.

As the doors opened, a firefighter called out:

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“Anyone need medical attention?”

​

He pointed at me.

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“She does.”

​

Before leaving, he had the guts to introduce himself.

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“I’m Arlindo, the plumber.”

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“Wait… I don’t get it. You’re not a psychologist?”

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“Nope. I’m single, no ex-wife, and I’m here to fix a leak.”

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I was stunned at how quickly he had crafted his character.

​

“And Orlando?”

​

“Who?” He looked at me, confused. Then he remembered.

​

“Oh, I just made that up because I needed you to feel comfortable. Hope it worked,” explained the handyman-who-should-have-been-a-psychologist-and-ended-up-being-an-actor.

​

And then he disappeared into the crowd, now jostling to get into the elevator.