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

  A white pstic shower stood in the corner, next to a low cedar bench—the only natural material in the otherwise clinical room. I sat down on the bench and undressed, enjoying the momentary refuge behind 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 out the hour, grabbing my ptop from the car, and disappearing 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. Ignoring the sign that demanded customers shower first, I popped in the earplugs Luanda gave me, and slid into the warm, thick water, barely noticing any movement.

  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, ephemeral—maybe just an effect of the reduced sensations. The sound of my heartbeat felt off, like a second slow one was dragging out underneath the regur one.

  A soft electronic ping cut the silence, and the blue light flickered on. 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 dulled to a distant throb. I tried speaking, letting out a little “whoop,” but my voice was quieter than it should have been. I yawned, trying to clear my ears, but nothing changed. I decided that whatever the fuck was happening, it must be an aftereffect of my time in the sensory deprivation tank.

  I felt like something might be wrong with me, physical or psychological. Maybe some childhood trauma bullshit. I shut these thoughts down and 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 cwed away my mental shell and let the panic creep back.

  “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 smmed 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 ptop inside. After confirming no one was near, 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 fsh 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 pavement 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, sck, 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 bckness. 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. The room was bright, real. My temples throbbed, but I was still alive. Just a 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 returned to normal. I repeated to myself that 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 one thing was real. The man with the gun was out there, waiting.