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pockets for the keys but realized he had left them in his room and the door had been programmed to auto-lock whenever someone leaves. He turned and faced the sidewalk full of people, stepped forward and, with a deep breath, joined them. A moment ago, while he stood at the door trying to control his panic from boiling over into a full nervous breakdown, the people had seemed completely indifferent and didn’t look in his direction. When he stepped onto the sidewalk, he seemingly drew their attention. The rational part of his mind knew the people were actually as indifferent as before, however the other part of his brain convinced him differently.
    Ian’s legs had trouble finding balance, as if the ground was coated with a rubbery substance. He felt the pedestrians’ stares like needles prodding the back of his neck. His anxiousness became tangible as a painful knot in his stomach. His chest tightened, restricted his airways, and his breathing became louder. They can hear me, he thought, they can hear me breathing. Stop it. The trees and grass provided a brief distraction; they posed as a picturesque background to the city. It reminded him of the illustrations he saw in children’s books: colorful pictures dominating a page with three or four boldfaced words.
    City workers grew the plants naturally, and then meticulously trimmed and groomed them until they resembled a caricature of nature; completely devoid of any uniqueness. Ian imagined that no one had a favorite tree, and no trunk bore carved initials inside of hearts, made by couples in the fiction his professor sometimes brought him to read. He felt a sudden urge to reach up and snatch a handful of leaves from one of the perfectly shaped branches, but fought it. The very thought almost threw him off balance. He tried to imagine his mother and father on either side of him as he walked, like they did whenever the family ventured to the market, but the image wouldn’t materialize.
    Without being guided by thought, his hand reached into the pocket of his jeans and produced the folded piece of paper with the directions. He glanced at the words, written in all capital letters, and then in front of him to make sure he didn’t run into anyone. The crowd challenged him to keep a certain pace so he wouldn’t disrupt the flow of their travel. About halfway down the block he managed to regain control of his breathing, but the invisible needles that constantly poked the back of his neck multiplied until his whole body tingled with an overwhelming, hot sensation. The knot in his stomach began to throb and intensify the feeling with each beat.
    He looked up again and noticed that he walked between two groups of people deeply engaged in separate conversations. He tried to catch snippets of their exchanges.
    â€œWho is -” one said.
    â€œWeird. Where’s he -” Another, he didn’t know whom, said.
    In a quick gesture, he tightened the grip on the paper and brought it to his face. He quietly whispered the directions to himself to drown out the conversations, which he couldn’t help but suspect centered on him. Kids are not usually seen outside walking around during a school day.
    â€œ32 nd block, 4 th suite, The Sub Terr Cafe.” He stole an upward glance and read a bright blue sign supported by two poles jutting from the corners of the sidewalk: 32ND BLOCK. His heart skipped a beat and the needles grated across his skin in increasing tempo. After he passed under the blue sign, he looked left and right but couldn’t locate the suite numbers. His harsh breathing returned. I t’s too late to count the buildings. I need to get off of the street. Despite the weakness in his knees, Ian managed to make a sharp right turn and neatly exit himself from the moving crowd into a shaded alcove. A set of unmarked double doors stood before him. A din of soft voices beyond beckoned him away from the fast-paced madness of the sidewalk, and drove