I'd Prefer to Go Back to My Regular Work-Anxiety Nightmares, Thanks.

I was standing in a glassed-in, white-carpeted office, having visited on business: an interview, maybe, or a project assignment. 

Two men nearby were chatting as I was about to leave. 

"Yeah, I've had this assignment for weeks and am still waiting for details so I can do the research."

"Ugh, I hate it when that happens. I'm in the exact same boat."

They were exchanging weary, smiling gripes about being freelance. I edged closer, pretending to study the scene outside the window, so I could hear more. I had to get going, but this would be useful information if I ever went independent. 

"Yeah, on the other hand though—just think if we were regular employees. Then we'd have to be here for the mass shooting."

As the man spoke I realized there had been a popping sound in the background: steady, methodical gunfire.

I looked around, but no one seemed to hear it. People continued to mill about the white carpet as if it were a cocktail party. The men wore suits, the women dresses. Like Mad Men. 

"Why is no one moving," I asked myself without a question mark, panic gripping my gut. The sounds, which happened to be quite like the New Year's fireworks that went off in the neighborhood the night before, slowly came closer. There was no way to get out now. I spotted a table to dive under—too high, too open and too near the door to offer much protection, but it was something. 

Then, heart pounding, I woke up.