Deodorant."

That's all that the crumpled list in my hands says. I'm standing in the middle of an isle, staring at about thirty different types of B.O blockers, trying to decide which one to get. Should I go for Under-Armor, or Teen Spirit, which smells like strawberries? Clinical Protection or Secret? Are my pits bad enough smelling that I need something twice as strong as normal deodorant? I'm almost ready to decide, when in the middle of my debate, a strange thought occurs to me. When did I drive to the supermarket and how long have I been staring at a rack of deodorants, trying to decide on which one to get?  I struggle to recall leaving my house, trudging through traffic and trying to find a parking spot, but there's nothing there. It's like hitting a wall, with no beginning and no end. 

All I know is my name, Michael.

 I reach into my pockets, and find no keys, or  a wallet to identify myself with. This is like some kind of nightmare. I throw the stupid one word list in my hand and take off down the isle, my shoes squeaking on the polished wood floor as I break into a run and skid down the rest of the way, into what I think is the main floor. Where the registers and the angry customers should be, arguing for the twenty-five cents that they should have gotten back, is nothing. The lanes are empty, the employees are gone. The store must have closed while I  was staring at the stupid deodorants. But wouldn't they have turned off the lights? Or thought to mention it to me before they locked me inside?  I run over to the front doors and stare out at the parking lot. It's pitch-black, and all I can see are a bunch of empty parking spots. Not one car, not even my car, sits out there. And anything past the concrete slab, like other stores, a road, even trees, I can't make out. I'm alone. I feel the air whoosh out of my stomach, as if I've been punched in the gut.