I look up, and I’m knocked back by what I see before me: thousands of floors that soar above me. Magnificent and glorious, leaving me dizzy and insignificant. A hand grabs mine, dragging me across the marbled floor, so shiny that it refracts light to such an intense degree, it’s blinding.

“Come on,” she insists. She’s in a hurry, weaving us through the throngs of shoppers milling about as she navigates this convoluted labyrinth of a mall I’ve never stepped foot in. “We have to beat the rush. It’s worth it.”

Oh right. We’re here to eat.

We walk until the crowd is no longer a crowd, until people are few and far between. The marbled floor eventually turns to tile, and I wonder when that transition even happened. Designer storefronts become boarded-up, broken-down spaces, plastered with aging “Coming soon” signs, like a broken promise for something that will never materialize. Everything’s dirtier. Drywall is caked and creased with stubborn dirt and grime.

She stops abruptly in front of an elevator, presses the up button, and we wait, watching the doors struggle to open, creaking in protest. Fluorescent light, steel walls, and an elevator that stops a good one feet below the floor. I recoil in fear — this elevator, a death trap if I ever saw one, is clearly very, very broken. My friend hops down so that she’s now a head shorter than me.

“Come on,” she repeats, impatiently, her frustration growing. “Let’s go.”

Hard pass. I’m not about to die for food, no matter how good it is. For some reason unknown to me, I want to cry. I’m really not trying to be difficult. A man appears next to me. “I’ll show you another way,” he says, quietly. And I turn to follow him, looking back at my friend as the door closes, wondering if that will be the last time I ever see her.

This man ushers me back to the “good” part of the mall, back to the shiny marble floors, back to the designer stores, back to the thousands of floors. We stand in the middle of the atrium and the floor moves — a 2-by-2-foot square platform shoots upwards. My screams are drowned out by the sheer velocity at which we’re moving and I cling to this stranger man because he’s the only thing I can hold on to. My knees begin to shake and buckle and tears stream from my eyes as I squeeze them tight. This is it, I think. This surely must be the end of me.

Just as suddenly as it all began, this pseudo-elevator lurches to a stop and a restaurant appears before me. And there she is, sitting at a table, with a bowl of noodles waiting for me. Grateful to be alive, grateful for any kind gesture, I sit down and I start to eat, slurping each noodle one by one.

Shit. Chili sauce splatters all over my pristine white dress. Shitshitshit. “Hey, do you have a Tide —”



9:58 a.m. The alarm on my phone jolts me awake. I slap it until it stops.

10 a.m. My second alarm sounds. I can hear the husband in the living room using his business voice wearing his business outfit to present something business-y in a Zoom meeting. With one eye open, I reach over to my nightstand to pull my laptop onto the bed to sign in to Slack and check my emails. And so begins my work day.

11:21 a.m. Breakfast: Three tablespoons of 0% Greek yogurt (Fage), a handful of maple almond butter granola (Whole Foods brand), organic blueberries (Driscoll’s), a drizzle of honey (from the bear-shaped bottle), a tablespoon of chia seeds (Whole Foods brand), and a sprinkle of mini chocolate chips (Nestle Toll House).

12:32 p.m. After a morning of meetings, the husband takes a break to make a sandwich: 12-grain whole wheat bread, mayo, four slices of honey ham, four slices of Swiss cheese. He gives me a kiss before he eats.

“How was your sleep? Did you have any dreams?” he asks as he takes a giant bite.

“I dunno.” My eyebrows furrow as I desperately try to cling onto a wisp of a memory that was never one to begin with, and it slips just out of reach, making my brain ache. “Something about an elevator. And it was scary.” I shrug. He shrugs.

1 p.m. Zoom meeting.



I’m on the street running past blocks and blocks of closed, grayed-out storefronts, like someone once mistakenly sketched them in pencil and then furiously erased them, leaving behind just a faint trace of their previous existence.

I need to find a printer. I run harder, hearing nothing but my feet pounding the pavement and my ragged breathing. I have to print out a return label so I can ship out this package. What package? I can’t remember, but it must be important, and I shake the question away. Must focus on finding a printer. I crash into a random person, knocking him to the ground.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” I turn to help him up. “Don’t I know you?” It’s my high school friend’s older brother — a person I’ve never spoken a word to in my entire life. I didn’t even know he lived in New York. “I’m in a hurry because I need to find a printer. It’s urgent.”

“I have one you can use,” he replies, pointing to his apartment building.

His place is one giant room — white walls and wooden floors — that’s completely void of any furniture or personal effects except for a laptop and a printer right in the center. Yes, a printer!

I crumble in front of the laptop and open up a new tab on his browser, giddy with happiness. I go to type in my email address, but an ad appears. I close it. And start again, and two more ads pop up. I X out of both of them. I type my address as fast as I can, and hundreds of ads spring up. Why the fuck is this happening? Bewildered, I look up for help only to realize I’m alone — and that I don’t even know this guy’s name.



3:15 p.m. I open my eyes and see my darkened laptop next to me. This is what I get for editing in bed.

3:21 p.m. Lunch: Mixed greens, one avocado, a giant tablespoon of tuna fish salad that the husband made the day before (canned tuna, mayo, pickled onions, celery), green goddess dressing, a dollop of hummus, and a dash of grated parmesan (all from Whole Foods).

4 p.m. Zoom meeting.

5:45 p.m. “Hey, what do you want for dinner?” I run through what we have in the fridge.
“Wait, I have another call,” he replies.

7 p.m. A round of applause for essential workers — a cacophony of claps, yells, the banging of cookware, and the lone foghorn — echo up and down our block and through our open living room window. I clap, and it wakes up our dog from his nap.

7:04 p.m. “So what do you want for dinner?”
“I dunno.”

7:15 p.m. Masks on. We take the dog for a walk.

8:32 p.m. Our dog’s dinner: Half cup of kibble, four tablespoons of boiled chicken breast, one tablespoon of diced green beans, and a packet of probiotics for good gut health.

Our dinner: Rice noodles stir-fried with diced tomatoes, sliced onions, broccoli florets, and shredded kale. A drizzle of soy sauce. Another drizzle of fish sauce.

9:20 p.m. Read.
My book: “Anna Karenina” by Leo Tolstoy
His book: “The Craft of Research” by Wayne C. Booth, Gregory G. Colomb, Joseph M. Williams, Joseph Bizup, William T. Fitzgerald



I have a giant glass of red wine in my hand. I inhale its aroma: a beautiful, full-bodied red with a tiny hint of spice. I take a sip. It’s delicious. I look across the table at my friend who’s chugging her cocktail — a lethal one by the looks of it. She waves down the server and orders another.

The restaurant is a new one. Gleaming white tables, transparent chairs, and fuchsia lights that remind me of trashy clubbing days or the dance floor of bad weddings.

Another cocktail arrives and she gulps it down.

“I’m so happy we’re here,” she slurs. Her eyes are half open and she nods between each word.

Wow, she’s really drunk. A guy knocks into the back of her chair. What little remained of her cocktail sloshes down the front of her top.

“What. The. Fuck,” she yells. He looks back, eyes her up and down, and zeroes in on her top.

“I’ll help you dry off,” he says, the words oozing out of his sleazy smile.

She pushes back her chair and stands up, facing him and fuming. And before he and I know what she’s about to do, she punches him square in the face. Oh shit.

I glance at my still-full glass of red, longingly, but the pragmatic side of me wins and I tear myself away. We really should get going. Our server offers to use himself as a human buffer, shielding us from the creep as I pull her toward the door.

We’re outside, and it’s completely dark except for one lamppost. And then it dawns on me that I have absolutely no idea where we are. There aren’t any taxis. There aren’t any cars. I whip out my phone and open Uber, but the map is in Chinese. I can’t read Chinese. And what’s my home address in Chinese?



11:01 p.m. I open my eyes and roll over to my side.



My friend and I walk further down the street, hoping to hail a taxi. I try to swallow down my panic, but I can’t help but pick up my pace. A sudden crash stops us in our tracks. I squint my eyes in the near-darkness and I begin to make out these massive forms. What I thought were buildings are actually human legs. Giant human legs. Giants loom above us, picking up random people on the street and crushing them with the palms of their hands. The silent, empty sidewalk we were on is now crammed with people running for their lives. The air is full with terrifying, deafening screams. I turn back and sprint back to the bar. To safety.

I slam the door shut behind me — my side cramping, my lungs searing, and my hands shaking — and spin around. Gone are the purple-pink lights. Gone are the white tables and the see-through chairs. I’m standing on the deck of a boat.



11:39 p.m. The dog is crying for attention. I comfort him and head to the living room to watch TV, my dog padding after me.

12:37 a.m. Masks on. We take the dog for a walk.

2:05 a.m. I kiss the husband goodnight. I go to shower.

2:45 a.m. Pour myself a glass of red wine, sit down at the dining table, and start writing.

5:33 a.m. I can’t sleep. Both dog and husband are snoring and it’s so loud. I prod my husband with my fingers and shove him to his side. Please, please stop snoring, I think. I really should sleep at a decent time.



I’m so, so late to meet my friend.

“Is there any way we can go faster?” I plead.

“I’ll try,” the taxi driver grunts. He speeds down the highway and careens left and then right, and we’re here.

A grand set of doors magically open before me as though they were expecting me. And I step foot inside.

I look up, and I’m knocked back by what I see before me: thousands of floors that soar above me. Magnificent and glorious, leaving me dizzy and insignificant.