Chasing the Slipping Envelope Through a Sand‑Carpet Lobby

Chasing the Slipping Envelope Through a Sand‑Carpet Lobby

I was standing in the lobby of my office building, but the reception desk was a grocery checkout line. A woman I hadn't seen in years—my high school chemistry teacher—was scanning my badge like a barcode. She handed me a tiny envelope and whispered, "They're looking for the missing file." I tried to open it, but the envelope kept slipping out of my hands and rolling down a hallway that stretched impossibly far, past elevators that never opened. I ran after it, but every time I took a step the carpet felt like thick sand. Finally the envelope landed on a janitor's cart in the basement, and a security guard in a uniform that was half‑firefighter, half‑police officer stopped me, asking for my ID. I fumbled for my wallet, but it was empty. The guard sighed, turned away, and the lights flickered out. I woke up just as I was about to call my boss to ask what the "missing file" was.