Endless hallway, elevator‑to‑grocery store receipt panic

Endless hallway, elevator‑to‑grocery store receipt panic

I woke up late for work and rushed out the front door, but the hallway in my apartment building stretched forever. I could see the end of it, a faint glow where the stairs should be, but every time I tried to run, my feet barely moved. I finally reached the lobby and realized I was still in my pajamas, the same ones I wore to bed. The elevator doors opened onto a grocery store instead of the lobby, and a cashier I recognized from high school—Emily, who now works at a bank—gave me a puzzled look as I handed her a receipt for a bag of oranges I never bought. She asked, "Did you forget something?" I tried to explain I was late for a meeting, but the words came out as a grocery list. Suddenly the store turned into the conference room at my office, and everyone was staring at me, waiting for a presentation I hadn't prepared. I felt a wave of panic, then the lights flickered and the room emptied, leaving me alone in the quiet aisle of the store, still holding the receipt.