Night set quickly, Marjorie thought to herself nervously. She left work later than planned and cautiously exited the building door, staring into the abyss before her. This particular door exited her closest to the car, but forced her down a dark and narrow corridor between the earth and the building. To her right, she couldn’t make out the details of the stone wall, though she felt it rise above her and break off suddenly. The darkness hid the colorful bushes and friendly critters who inhabited them; the shadows were not as soothing. To her left, she placed her hand on the dull concrete of the building, now her anchor.

It came on quickly. Marjorie‘s stomach dropped each time she walked this path through the stillness. She willed her legs to move faster as her heart began to race - her Apple Watch beeping concerns over the sudden change - but the shakes were insurmountable tonight. She felt trapped inside a bubble, the pressure inside increasing with each heart beat throbbing in her ears.

Leaning against the concrete wall, she shut her eyes tight, slid down to ground, and remembered her senses:

“One thing you can hear,” she thought and listened, “absolutely nothing. Not even a chipmunk rustling in the bushes.” The silence closed in around her - her watch’s cries unnoticed.

“One thing you can smell,” she continued and inhaled deeply, “dirt? Does dirt have a smell? It smells like air.”

This wasn’t working; she cried in frustration.

“One thing you can touch,” she hiccuped and ran her fingers along the wall, where she noticed the bumps in the concrete. It felt like the horrible popcorn ceiling in her old apartment. She inhaled deeply.

“One thing you can taste,” she resigned and stretched out her legs, feeling the gravel under her calves, “stale.” She clicked her tongue and realized she didn’t quite enjoy dry mouth. Slowly, she opened her eyes for the last one, the tears finally subsiding.

“One thing you can see,” she said aloud and lifted her head up to the night sky. The moon swam out from behind the clouds, full and gleaming. Marjorie hadn’t noticed - how could she? - the moonlight presented a pathway to the lot.

Feeling depleted, she rummaged in her bag for a piece of gum, hearing the crack as she took that first bite, and tasting the fiery mint on her tongue. She counted twelve chews before standing, and brushed the dirt off her backside. As she walked down the path she recounted her sensed again, faster this time:

One thing she could hear - her heels clacking on the pavement.

One thing she could smell - the putrid garbage in the can she passed.

One thing she could touch - the contrast of fabrics between the rough, woolen exterior of her skirt, and the silky interior of the pocket.

One thing she could taste - the winterfresh gum slowly losing its flavor.

One thing she could see - the moon, signing directly over her car as she unlocked the door and sat inside.

She was not okay, not by any means. But she could make it home.