Waking back up in the warm, thick water of the sensory deprivation tank was a relief, but not a complete one. I couldn’t feel the pain from the many scrapes and bruises that Nick had left all over my hands, knees, and face, but my head was throbbing, and each heartbeat made my ears ring. I could also still smell blood.

  I opened the tank, and despite the subdued lighting, my head throbbed even more as my eyes adjusted. I felt a warm trickle down my face and into my mouth, and when I wiped my nose, my hand came back scarlet. The coppery taste and the pounding in my head disoriented me for a few seconds as I sat up in the tank.

  As I pulled myself out of the sensory deprivation tank, I gnced up at the clock. It read 9:35. I stood there, holding onto the tank with one arm for support. I closed my eyes, and Relief warred with a disorienting fear. I had just experienced nearly an hour in the tank, yet only five minutes had passed according to the clock. How was that even possible? What was happening? Nothing made any sense. The lines between reality and unreality, present and future, had become a jumbled mess. I sat down on the step leading into the pod.

  Shutting down my thoughts was something I was usually good at, but this was overwhelming. My mind fshed back to my childhood. One of my mom’s clients was shouting at her in her bedroom again, hurling insults my eight-year-old mind wasn’t supposed to understand—yet did. My headset was on, and the game music was loud, but I couldn’t block it out. I was sobbing, trying not to think, just wanting to py the damn game and escape. I felt like that boy again, but this time, the tears and snot mixed with the blood flowing freely from my nose.

  Something was wrong. I was disoriented, and whatever I had just experienced didn’t add up. The only expnation that made sense to my admittedly confused mind was a medical emergency—perhaps a stroke. My entire perception of time had been distorted.

  Without showering, I put on my pants and underwear, grabbed my shirt, and stumbled shoeless out of the room. As I made my way down the hall to the entrance, I noticed Luanda looking at me, her demeanor instantly shifting to one of concern. My voice was shaky and raspy as I said to her, "I think I may have had a stroke. Can you call an ambunce?" It was the only expnation that seemed to fit, but I was struggling to understand anything anymore.

  Luanda dialed her phone as she sprinted over to help me. Slipping her arm under mine, she partially lifted me, and I was amazed at her strength. She half-supported me, guiding me to a set of chairs in the lobby. In front of the chairs was a low table stacked with magazines. While Luanda helped me sit, she spoke to the 911 operator, clearly reying the exact address. Her voice was calm and composed.

  As she called, I pulled on my shirt, staining it crimson in the process. I realized that my shoes and socks were still back in the pod room, but my head was pounding too hard for me to care. If I made it to the hospital alive, I could worry about everything else ter. I could feel the same overwhelming panic that had driven me into the building in the first pce rising again.

  Luanda set her phone on the coffee table and walked to her desk. It was on speaker, and I heard a woman with a slight southern drawl say an ambunce was coming. Luanda shouted back, “I’m going to get him some water,” as she grabbed a bottle from a tray. After opening it, she walked back and handed it to me.

  She picked up her phone and stepped back to talk to the operator. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain just behind my eyes, and my vision became impossibly blurry. The world around me split apart.

  It was like holding a hand in front of one eye—you see the hand, but you can also see through it. I could see Luanda moving slowly, but at the same time, I noticed another Luanda walking at a normal speed over to her desk. This second Luanda began rifling through her purse for something. When she couldn’t find it, she opened the desk drawers and located a first aid kit. Meanwhile, the first Luanda had one foot in the air, moving improbably slowly, not having completed even a single step.

  The pain spiked again, and there was just one Luanda walking to the desk.

  I watched Luanda repeat every action I had just seen her perform: first, she rummaged through her purse and then searched the desk. A sudden spike of pain hit me again, causing another split, one Luanda ahead of the other, but it ended almost as soon as it began, and I was back to a single vision of the world again.

  During the brief fracture, I had a moment of crity. It felt like I was looking ahead; everything in the present appeared in slow motion. At the same time, another part of me focused on what was about to happen, my mind registering it as normal speed. I was observing a potential future, but what I did in the present could change it. I wondered if this experience was simir to what I had felt in the tank, but with my primary senses dialed down to the point where I could no longer perceive them.

  Luanda handed me some medical gauze and said, “Put pressure on your nose and hold that to it to catch the blood.” I had no idea if this was sound medical advice, but I followed her instructions.

  She started to walk back to her desk when another pain spike hit me, followed by another. The world felt steady, but then a third wave of pain struck me so intensely that I had to cry out, “Fuck!” Suddenly, I felt the split in my perception again. One Luanda, the present one, was moving slowly, talking on her phone, while another version of her was looking out the front window and reaching into her purse.

  I gnced over and saw Dave—the same Dave in the Nike jacket from my nightmare visions. He pulled a gun out of the holster he had in the back of his pants while pushing the door open with one hand. He stepped in and looked around. Luanda had her hand in her purse, and Dave saw me. I started to get up, and he shot me. Then the split ended, and it was just the one Luanda again.

  If I wanted to live, I needed to move. I tried to stand up, but I was unstable, and my vision was blurred. Luanda said, “Don’t get up.” I ignored her, forcing myself to my feet. I wanted to find a pce to hide—perhaps the bathroom or the tank. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like that little boy in his room, wishing the shouting would stop. I saw Dave approaching the door, reaching for his gun. This wasn’t just a half-formed image; this was real. This was happening right now.

  Reality split again. While the real world barely moved at all, in my future perception, I tried to run. I took one step, then another, when suddenly I felt a pain in my chest and heard a gunshot. Then I was back in that initial moment, my focus fixed on the gun. I tried to run again, repeating the same two steps. I heard the same gunfire and returned to the beginning once more. Just three seconds passed, but I kept reliving them in this strange split reality. Each time, the gun was slightly further out of his holster.

  This time, I decided not to run away. Instead, I ran towards him. I tripped over the coffee table and rolled over, hearing a bang and resetting to the beginning. The tip of the gun was now past the holster. This time, I stepped on the coffee table and jumped at him, but when I pushed off the magazines, my foot slipped, and I hit the floor before I heard the shot.

  After two more attempts, I finally managed to reach him just as the gun swung around. He sidestepped and did something with my hand, causing me to hit the ground face-first just as I heard the bang. When I reset, the gun was a full inch past the holster.

  I adjusted my positioning slightly this time, and when I reached him, I let my body sm into his as I wrapped my arms around him. We both went down, but he managed to roll over and ended up on top of me. He slowly pointed the gun at me, and I heard the bang, but there was no pain and no reset.

  I saw his head jerk to the side before he colpsed on top of me. I gnced over and saw Luanda; the small gun in her hand held with experienced ease.

  The split ended, resetting my perception and returning me to the normal flow of reality. The gun was coming free. I stepped up onto the coffee table, and the gun began to swing around. I leaped toward him, but the gun halted as he adjusted to intercept my lunge. He let me crash into him, and I felt him pull me over as we hit the ground. He rolled on top of me. Just like before, he was on top of me, bringing his gun around. Then, bang—his head jerked, and his body went limp. I could see a small hole in the left side of his skull. This time, though, there was no second image. This was now. I could smell gunpowder, my ears rang, and I felt a warmth in my pants.

  The throbbing in my head diminished rapidly as I pushed the limp body of Dave off me and looked over at Luanda. She didn’t seem panicked at all. She was standing there with the gun at her side, her finger just off the trigger guard. The 911 operator with the southern drawl was saying something about gunshots. She had just killed a man—one shot, right in the head. She had taken the gun from her purse, determined he was a threat, and pulled the trigger in less than ten seconds. Who the hell was she? Whoever she was, I had definitely chosen the right store to hide in.

  In the distance, I heard the sound of sirens. I looked at Luanda and said, “You just saved my life. Why did you do that?” She looked confused, her brow furrowed, and she started to speak when the arm on the fire exit began to bre. Damn. That must be Nick. I wanted nothing to do with the linebacker.

  I started to run to my rental car and heard Luanda call, “hey where the fuck are you going.” I didn’t stop. I didn’t even turn around. I got inside and started the engine. I took off before the ambunce and police arrived, leaving Luanda to deal with Nick, the police, the ambunce, the 911 operator, and the chaos I had dropped on her doorstep. I felt like the world’s biggest ass, but I didn’t want to die.