I stepped inside the private float room and closed the door, pausing momentarily to massage my temples. The space was tight, but not claustrophobic. The pod resembled an elongated, white plastic hot tub with an enclosing, arched roof and an open lid. A muted blue glow emanated from the inside, matching the Stillpoint logo stenciled on the side and the room's dim lighting.

  A small white plastic shower occupied the nearby corner, with a low cedar bench next to it, the only natural material in the otherwise clinical room. I sat down on the bench and took my clothes off unhurriedly, enjoying the momentary refuge in the seeming safety of the locked door. I breathed deeply, almost tasting the salt in the warm, damp air.

  I thought about not even getting in, just waiting in the room for the whole hour, then leaving, grabbing my laptop from the car, and hurrying back to my apartment. But I’d already paid my sixty-five bucks, so what the fuck? I may as well give it a try. I finished undressing, obeyed the sign that demanded customers “shower before entering,” put in the pair of earplugs Luanda had given me, and slid into the warm, thick water. I barely noticed the movement of the water as I slid in.

  The pod’s lid sealed with a soft thud, muffling the world, the tank’s silence enveloping me. My pulse quickened for an instant, but I let my body go still and drifted, weightless, as if untethered in space. My heartbeat echoed faintly, and my eyes chased figments in the darkness—flecks of imagined light that dissolved and reappeared elsewhere.

  I tried to let my mind drift, but the pain between my eyes returned, distant and ephemeral—perhaps an effect of the reduced sensations. The sound of my heartbeat felt off, as if a second slow one were drawing out for seconds underneath the regular one. Then a soft blue light flickered on with a soft electronic ping. Two minutes had passed, tops—I hadn’t slept. Something was wrong.

  As I exited the pod, everything looked muted, like a computer screen with the brightness turned too low. My headache had dulled too, a distant throb beneath the surface. I took my time showering and dressing; the strange dullness made no sense. Logically, things would appear brighter after the lack of sensation. I tried speaking, letting out a little “whoop,” and my voice was quieter than it should be. I yawned, trying to clear my ears, but nothing changed. I decided that whatever it was, it must be an aftereffect of my time in the sensory deprivation tank.

  There was a more profound fear. These powerful moments of panic might mean something was wrong with me, perhaps physical or psychological. Maybe some childhood trauma bullshit. It was a genuine, dark, personal fear, and I shut it down. I stomped on it like an ant, and I focused on returning to the car.

  Returning to the lobby, Luanda greeted me, her smile less warm than before. “How was it? Did you like it?” She sounded muffled and far away. More frightening was how fuzzy she appeared around the edges, like a double or triple vision, but only around her, not the surroundings like the desk or the walls. Worse still, she didn't feel fully real. It clawed away my mental shell and let the panic creep back.

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  “It was nice, but I fell asleep,” I said. My voice was distant and detached, and I wondered if some kind of hallucinogen was in the water.

  She made an exaggerated frown and replied, “Yes, that happens sometimes.” Her eyes flicked over me, sharp and assessing, like she was scanning for lies. “That guy you mentioned came by. He had a picture of you, and he asked if I’d seen you. I almost told him you were here, but he gave off a really nasty vibe, so I said I didn’t.”

  Her words slammed into me. How could they have a picture of me so quickly? My mouth went dry, and I briefly scanned the lobby windows. The gray skies did nothing to hide me from anyone looking in. Forcing a smile that felt like a grimace, I nodded, my voice tight. “Thanks, Luanda. You did me a solid.” Luanda’s eyes tracked me, unwavering, as I turned to leave.

  I stepped outside and looked at the car I had rented. Thankfully, it was still there. I hoped no one had found the laptop inside. After looking around and confirming no one was nearby, I approached the car and opened the door. Just as I was about to get in, I suddenly heard a loud crack and saw a flash from the window of a car parked about a block away.

  My mind raced. Someone was shooting at me. I turned and tried to run, but nothing worked, like a marionette with the strings cut. A body sprawled on the sidewalk beneath me, blood streaming from a broken skull. A man, pale and still. My focus locked on the friendship bracelet —the one Lisa had given me half a lifetime ago. My face, slack, eyes empty. A scream burned in my throat, but no sound came out. That dead man was me.

  Time stopped. I couldn’t feel my body: not my breath or my heart, but I could look wherever I wanted. A sensation like a current or ghostly fingers dragged at me, pulling me somewhere, and everything dissolved into blackness. Nothing. I couldn’t feel a thing. Was this death? I tried to move and sensed warm water sloshing around me. It dawned on me that I was still in the tank—still in the sensory deprivation tank.

  I reached up and pushed the lid open. The rush of blood roared in my ears, but everything was normal again. The room was bright again. Temples throbbed, but I was still alive. It had all been some kind of nightmare; none of it was real.

  There had been terror, yes, but also in that infinite moment where I believed I had died, a sad longing: like waiting alone for someone—anyone—to come home, like being the only child without a sled on a frosty winter morning.

  As I breathed, I focused on my lungs, letting them expand and contract. Breath was life, so I embraced each one. Slowly, my heart rate came back down. It wasn’t real—just a nightmare born of salt and stress. But as I gripped the pod’s edge, eyes scanning the compact room, I knew that one thing was real. The man with the gun was out there, waiting.