It’s always the same dream. The setting never varies and she is never sure how she got there.

She finds herself at the top of a flight of cement stairs. No handrails just smooth stone walls that seem to curve toward her. When she thinks of the dream, she often imagines a coffin. The only illumination coming from a single bare bulb dangling from the low ceiling. The light sways, casting both light and shadow. The only sound is her shallow breath coming faster and faster as panic sets in.

Something compels her down the stairs. Her foot always slips on the first step and she begins her fall.

She sits up quickly, heart beating fast, needing just a bit more air. Sitting on the edge of the mattress she places her feet on the cold floor, anchoring herself to reality. Forcing herself to calm down, she takes a sip of water from the glass on the nightstand and lies down again.

One day in the not so distant future, she finds herself poised at the top of an escalator, unable to take that first step.