This happened last night too. Or this night. Whatever. I thought it was me drunk weeping, but it’s not.

It’s coming from Hugo’s. The music man. Why is he sad? His cries are the perfect soundtrack to the past two days. One day. Ugh.

I take deep breaths and try to calm my mind. I just need some sleep.

Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow will be Tuesday. This was just a weird blip. It has to be.

Otherwise . . . what if I’m dead? Or something is wrong with me? Anxious thoughts crowd my head. I can’t let myself spiral.

I focus on my breathing.

Everything will work out. It always does . . . doesn’t it?

Chapter Five

Burping.

Music bumping.

Bass thumping.

I open my eyes and stare up at my ceiling, moving from dead sleep to full-blown panic in half a second.

What is happening?

I lurch up in bed, taking in the contents of my bedroom with a sharp glance.

My briefcase is there, next to my desk.

“No. No no no no no.”

I’m in the ducky PJs. My phone’s on the nightstand. I pick it up. Dead.

I try to take deep breaths, but I can’t. My throat closes up. It’s not working. I think I might throw up. Black spots cloud my vision.

“Sprinkle me,” the music says.

“Sprinkle yourself!” I yell and then immediately gasp for air.

Blackness surrounds me, coalescing into a dark tunnel of denial, anger, shock, depression, you name it. I’m a living stew of swirling emotions.

Knocking.

I’m breathing heavy, air sawing in and out, and still I go out to the hall and stare at neighbor man in his red robe outside Hugo’s door.

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

I slam the door, leaning back against it and blindly staring into the living room. I haven’t had a full-blown panic attack in a while. I’ve been safe. I’ve had a routine. I’ve avoided doing things that trigger too much anxiety. And now, all of that hard work has been shattered to smithereens.

Think, Jane, think.

I race into my bedroom. I can’t make sense of any of this. What do I do? Isn’t the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting something to change?

But what are my other options? Hiding from the world sounds great, but . . .

I stop by the chair in my bedroom and stare at the clothes set out. The blouse is gone. Only the pants are there, laying in the same position they were the past two days. The shirt’s missing. Why is the shirt missing?

I open the closet. There it is. Where I put it, yesterday, which was also Monday. The blouse is still there, on the sewing box. I pick it up. And it’s still ripped.