The elevator doors slide open and Thomas steps in. “Sylvie?” he asks.

I can’t move. The elevator dings. My pulse jacks sky high. Each breath I take slams hard and fast into the next one. An arm wraps around my waist. Strong hands knead knotted muscles. Shit-shit-shit.

“Slow it down,” Thomas says. “Slow and steady.”

I can’t. It’s like trying to stop a runaway horse with no reins.

“Do you need help?” a woman asks.

“She’s having a panic attack,” Thomas says.

The woman crouches in front of me—white sleeves, black hair, a gold ring on her index finger. “Can’t—stop,” I gasp. “Feels . . . heart . . . explode.” Hands tingle and my head fills with helium. Spots rain across my vision.

Calmly, the woman says, “I’m Dr. Prim Acharya. A panic attack is an episode of intense fear that triggers a physical reaction. But you’re not in danger. You won’t have a heart attack even though it feels like the big one is right around the corner. And you won’t die.”

Tell that to my body.

She continues, her voice melodic, “The hormone adrenaline has flooded your bloodstream. It puts your heart on overdrive. But it won’t last long. Focus on an object in your mind—let’s use a tree. A beautiful aspen tree whose leaves have just turned golden. Can you see it? You’re under the tree and it rustles in the wind, listen . . . each muscle will now slowly relax, release. Think of the adrenaline as a line of ants that march out of your body, up that tree. Purse your lips and take a slower breath . . . good. Another one? There you go. Do it again . . . and again . . . and again . . . now one more time. Good girl. Think you can stand up? I do. I know you can.”

I slowly stand, my fingers still numb, breath ragged. Dr. Acharya is a willowy Indian woman with wavy black hair, salted at the temples, and dark eyes behind round glasses. She takes my wrist, checks the pulse.

“That was a doozy,” she says.

My face burns. “I’m sorry.”

She stage whispers, “I get them, too. They’re scary as fuck. Find a therapist, develop a coping strategy; they’ll happen less frequently. Maybe even go away.” She squeezes my hand. “What set it off?”

“Thomas’s mom is having surgery. That was probably it. I’m squeamish.”

“Off you go, then,” Dr. Acharya says.

An elevator arrives. We step into the empty car. Thomas squeezes my shoulder. “What really happened?”

“I have no idea.” But I do. I don’t know where or when, but I’m certain that I’ve been behind the locked doors of a psychiatric unit.

We cross the sky bridge, then head down the curved hallway until we reach a white desk. A nurse in green scrubs named Levi tells us Thomas’s mother is in surgery and leads the way to the waiting area, a collection of regular and oversized chairs and couches upholstered in dark green. Low tables showcase an array of magazines—National Geographic, Cooking, Sunset, People, Architectural Digest, and The New Yorker. In the far corner, a mother and teen daughter sit on a couch. The daughter is slumped against the arm, texting, while her mom scans the hallway, waiting for whatever doctor will give her news.