But now I unwittingly know my next-door neighbor’s name.

Hugo.

It’s fitting, considering his huge size. He’s a goliath of a man, wide and tall. Body builder maybe. Football player. Possible assassin. Fearful, by all accounts. Except in his choice in music. While loud and pounding and rapped, the lyrics “Sparkle me” over and over don’t exactly inspire fear.

When the music continues to hammer through the air, no response to the knocking, red-robe man pounds harder.

“It’s Monday! I have a call in thirty minutes, help me out here, huh?”

Monday. Meeting.

Oh, crap.

I slam the door and rush to the bathroom, racing through my morning ablutions, pitching my ducky pajamas in the hamper. No time for anything more than peeing and scrambling into the clothes I set out the night before, a sensible pale pink blouse and slimming black slacks. I toss a small bag of makeup into my briefcase on top of my proposal. Then I’m out the door, running to the BART station on the corner to catch the next train.

I barely make it in time, the doors shutting behind me as I squish in between a redheaded woman in a hot pink t-shirt and bright yellow pants and a man in an Armani suit on his cell phone, one of his hands clutching the pole in the center of the car.

Once the train is in motion, I grab my phone from my bag and hold down the power button. Maybe it needs a reset or something. If I can call the office, let them know I’m going to be late, make some excuse, maybe I won’t have a panic attack on the train surrounded on all sides by strangers.

I shake my head and take a breath.

Focus, Jane. Phone. Work. Important meeting. But thinking about the upcoming meeting doesn’t help calm me. Instead, my heart races, my stomach twists into knots, black spots crowd the corners of my eyes, and my hands shake.

I breathe and stare at my phone until my vision clears and I can focus on pressing the power button down. It’s not working. I take a deep calming breath but immediately choke on the fumes from the cologne of the businessman next to me and get dirty looks from the rest of the passengers.

“Sorry.” I cough into my hand.

I spend the rest of the train ride using a compact to try and fix my face and hair, but in the cramped train car it’s an exercise in futility. Business man is on the phone the entire time, yelling about assets and liabilities and bitcoins, all while waving his free hand, continually smacking into my elbow while I’m attempting to put mascara on. I end up swiping a thick line of black under my cheek and poking myself in the eye three times. Finally, I give up.

The train jerks to a stop, forcing me to grab onto the pole under business man’s hand and . . . ick. There’s something on there. It’s wet. I lift my hand. And it’s brown.