Open by asking if they have a signal. Push off from this if it helps: a wasp in a car.

Do you have a signal? My phone is just spinning, that endless little wheel of doom. It's maddening. It reminds me of that wasp I saw once, trapped in a closed car on a highway in July. We drove for three hours with the windows cracked, me screaming at it to just die, and it just... zipped. Frantic energy against glass. That's this lift. We are the wasp, Jo. We are buzzing against a box of steel while the world moves on without us. Do you actually have bars? Or are we just waiting for the lights to go out? I keep checking my pocket, but it's dead. Just dead.

I'm not tapping it. I'm checking. There's a difference. And my mom doesn't nag about rent; she nags about the draft in the hallway. But fine, you had a call. A little slice of normalcy before the steel box swallowed us whole. That's the thing, isn't it? You think the normal stuff matters now? You're sitting there with your one bar, acting like the world hasn't stopped spinning. I've been standing here for twenty minutes, Jo. Twenty minutes. That wasp story isn't dramatic, it's a warning. Frantic energy in a closed space. We're not fine. We're waiting for a door that won't open. Stop telling me we're fine.

Fine, ten minutes. Ten minutes that feel like a decade. You think I'm pacing? I'm keeping the air moving. If I stop, the air gets stale. Your office doesn't care? Good, maybe they won't notice you've vanished. But the wasp doesn't care about the office either, Jo. The wasp just wants out. You want me to sit? Sit down! I'm sitting! There, I'm on the floor. Happy? My back hurts. That floor is hard. And don't tell me to be calm when you're the one acting like this is a casual coffee break. We're trapped. Just admit it.

The wasp died? That's the point, isn't it? It killed itself trying to get out. I'm not going to pass out, I'm just... overheating. Concrete is hard, yeah, but at least it's solid. This elevator is a coffin waiting to seal. You say you're waiting, but you're just staring at that one bar like it's a lifeline. It's not. It's a ghost signal. Just like the wasp's frantic buzzing was useless. Stop telling me to breathe quieter. I'm not making noise, I'm alive. And if you're so calm, why are your hands shaking? I see them. They're shaking. Admit it. We're both terrified.

Sweating? I'm just hot. It's the lights, they're too bright. And I'm not analyzing you, I'm observing. There's a difference. The wasp didn't know when to stop because it didn't know the walls were solid. We do. We know the walls are solid, yet here we are, waiting for a rescue that might not come. You say shut up, but silence is heavy, Jo. It presses on your ears. My hands aren't shaking either. I'm just gripping the rail. If I let go, I might float. Or maybe I'll just sit here and wait for the floor to give way. That's what you want, right? For me to stop talking so you can pretend this is normal. But the wasp story isn't over. It's just getting started.

It's not dead if we're still here. That's the trap. You want to kill the wasp so you can sleep, but the buzzing never stops. It just moves inside your head. "Just an elevator." Right. Like a coffee cup is just a cup. It's a box that stopped working. My head isn't the problem, the silence is. You think if you stop talking, the steel will un-bend? It won't. I'm not making this a story, Jo. I'm just the only one awake. The others, the ones who built this thing, they're probably eating lunch while we rot. Your hands are steady? Fine. Then hold the door. Open it. Go on. Show me how.