The evacuation map had one more door than the hallway. I checked it while waiting for the fire alarm to stop. A red arrow marked YOU ARE HERE. Under it, in smaller letters: FOR NOW.
The first exit opened onto my childhood kitchen. My father looked up from a newspaper and asked whether I had finished my homework. I closed it before he could notice my grey hair.
The second opened onto a beach at night. Something enormous was breathing under the sand. The third showed the hallway I was already standing in, with a version of me reaching for the fourth door.
I turned. There was no fourth door. The map now showed three, then two. Somewhere behind the wall a latch clicked. The red arrow moved closer to the edge of the paper.
When the last door opened, it was an ordinary stairwell. Cold concrete. A wet-floor sign. I laughed so hard I had to hold the rail.
At the bottom, a map showed one small red arrow. YOU WERE HERE.