He looked Riley up and down. Her cheeks burned. “What?” He shrugged. “I’m just surprised you don’t have a problem with elevators.” Riley tried to look nonchalant. It wasn’t that she didn’t have a problem with elevators—it was that she had learned to control it. She remembered her mother’s hand closing over hers. “Come on, Riley. You and me, together.” Riley stared down at the threshold where the industrial gray carpet met the silver thread of the elevator doors’ track. Her mother gave her arm a little tug and looked down at Riley—four or five years old then—her eyes soft and encouraging. Riley sucked in a deep breath and willed her right foot forward. She stared down at her glossy Mary Jane shoe on the floor of the elevator. And then the doors started to close. Panic rose and exploded across her chest, each finger of fear reaching out to pinch the air in her lungs.
