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“I can’t.”

“Go.”

I nod and hurry toward the back. When I push through the door, the corridor narrows and breathing gets harder. I make it as far as a stack of crates beside the fire exit before I collapse on one of them and drop my head in my hands.

Breathe.

I can’t draw a full breath into my lungs.

That’s the thing nobody tells you about panic attacks. It’s like your body is convinced it’s dying, and the harder you try to breathe, the more the air won’t come. Though I know this, it doesn’t help. My hands are trembling worse now, and I press them flat against my jeans to stop the movement.

In through your nose.

I can’t.

I just need air.

The sound of the door opening is not a priority right now. I don’t bother looking up. It’s a distraction I don’t need when I just want air.

“Hey.”

I relax slightly, knowing it’s Doren. He shuffles in front of me and his hands cover mine.

“Five things.”

“Stack of boxes,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound right. “The fire door, the . . .” I stop and drag in half a breath. “The yellow sign on the extinguisher, the light on the ceiling, and your shoes.”

“My shoes are very nice.”

I almost laugh but it comes out as a sob instead. I slide my hands from beneath Doren’s and press the heels of my palms against my eyes as I murmur, “Four things I can touch.”

“Take your time,” he says, his voice sounding more like him.

I press my hands against my thighs again, then the crate under my legs. Rub the fabric of my shirt and spin a ring on my hand. “Three things I can hear. The music from the bar, the old-ass fridge, and you breathing annoyingly calm.”

“One of us has to be.”

I breathe, getting a whole lungful, and it feels amazing. “Two things I can smell. Stale beer and floor cleaner.”

“It’s a classy establishment.”

“One thing I can taste. Does my own spit count?”

“I will get you some water in a minute. You good now?”

I’m not good, but my hands have stopped trembling, and I can breathe again. So I’m as good as I am going to be right now.

Aaron is not here.

He has never been here.

He doesn’t know where I live or where I work.

He has been in prison for years.

He doesn’t know where I am.

Repeating that mantra in my head, I make myself believe it, as I have done everything right, including relocating and changing jobs. I have been okay since I left him and am now the best version of myself. I will still be okay because I am no longer scared of my shadow. I am barely scared of anything and have learned to be strong.