I was running as fast as I could, feeling the soles of my shoes wear down against the scorching asphalt. The air was thick, suffocating; the sun blazed directly on my face, and sweat mixed with the street dust. Horns blared, engines roared, people shouted—the chaos of rush hour at its peak.

A homeless man stretched out his hand toward me. “Can’t, sorry,” I muttered, dodging him. A shopping cart appeared out of nowhere; I stumbled, sending fruit rolling across the sidewalk. “Sorry, sorry,” I said, frantically gathering bananas and oranges under the shopper’s furious glare. As soon as I finished, I bolted off again, weaving through pedestrians like an obstacle course.

The traffic was a nightmare, but on foot, I had an edge. I dashed across the street without looking. A taxi screeched to a halt, its horn blaring in my ears. “Sorry!” I yelled, not stopping for a second. Adrenaline coursed through me as fast as I ran. I had to get home. My mom had called with an emergency, and I couldn’t afford any delays.

I tried a shortcut but found it blocked. “Damn it!” I shouted, pivoting toward the longer route. The uneven pavement made my steps wobbly. People stared, but I didn’t care. My mom was alone, and something was wrong. I couldn’t let her down.

I crashed into someone. Again. This time, it was a girl. She fell backward, and I crouched down to help her up. Her hand was soft, and her red hair shimmered in the sunlight. I stared a second too long. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay,” I said, lifting her before sprinting off again, not waiting for her response.

Near home, my foot sank into a deep pothole. I hit the ground, scraping my palms. “This isn’t a street—it’s a trap!” I muttered, pushing myself up as pain shot through my ankle. The stabbing sensation was nothing compared to the fear gripping me. I limped forward, every step a mix of urgency and agony.

“Mom!” I yelled as I burst through the door. No response. My heart pounded like it was ready to explode. I searched every room, every corner. Nothing. “Mom!” The word echoed in the silence, fueling my panic. I stumbled into the backyard, barely breathing.

There she was. Standing by the gas tank. “Mom!” I exclaimed.

“You’re finally here!” she said, as if nothing had happened. “Help me reconnect the gas. I have a meeting with my friends, and I want to make your favorite dinner.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. “This is the emergency?” I asked, still gasping for air. She raised an eyebrow. “I thought I could do it myself, but I didn’t want to mess it up.”

I sighed, exhaling the tension I hadn’t realized I was holding. Relief washed over me, replacing the anxiety that had driven me to run like a madman. I changed the gas tank and collapsed into a chair. She started cooking, humming to herself. Everything was fine. For now.