I’m okay. I can walk.”
I said it without thinking, really. I felt awful, very dizzy and disjointed from reality. Yet something inside me, a very primal urge, told me to flee. I felt the need to cover my head and run as far away from this place as I could. I kept looking up, like the ceiling might collapse right on top of me. And I flinched at every loud noise that echoed down the tunnel behind us.
My nerves buzzed as I moved slowly in a long line as we headed up the stairs of the subway platform. The man behind me, dressed in a tattered and stained NYC Transit uniform, had helped me for almost half an hour as we all shuffled through the darkness. Once we stepped up to the station—I have no idea which one, but maybe it was 34th or probably 28th—the urge to get out became overwhelming.
“You lost consciousness back there,” the man said in an accent.
I tried to sound okay, but my “I’m fine” came out more of a mutter.
“You’re bleeding.”
My hand, the one already stained with my blood, lifted. My hair still felt damp.
“It’s okay.”
The man reached for my other hand. “Can I help you with your bag?”
That’s when I stopped walking. The man behind the transit worker bumped him. I barely noticed. Instead, I stared down at my other hand. In it, I held a brown leather briefcase. I guess I’d had it since I first stood up. I never noticed. I never knew.
“No,” I snapped, jerking forward again.
I needed to get the hell out of there. I needed air. I needed to be free. The walls seemed to press into my chest, crushing the air out of my lungs. The need to escape quickly matched the need to breathe. I pushed past the guy in front of me as he stumbled into the wall. Someone shouted, but I kept going.
“I need to get out,” I said.
People moved to the side. I staggered up the stairs, never looking at the case again. But I kept thinking about it. In a way, it made me panic. I just kept going over and over it in my head. Where did the briefcase come from? Had I been carrying it that whole time?
Near the top of the stairs, a firefighter appeared. He wore no helmet, but he did have an oxygen tank on his back. Seeing it, I slowed. I remembered the tank and the mask . . . and the finger. The dizziness got worse. I reached out for the tiled wall, but my hand slipped. I fell back into the people behind me. Their weight, their mass, kept me on my feet, but just barely. Then the firefighter got to me. He touched me, gently, and I didn’t stop him. He didn’t try to take the case. Instead, he put my other arm over his neck and he led me up into the night.