The siren started three blocks away

The siren started three blocks away.

I kept talking through the spreadsheet numbers

but my attention split

like a fork in the road nobody asked me to take.

It got louder. That predictable crescendo.

I did the math in my head—

the route it would take if it kept coming this way,

the turn it would make,

how many seconds before it reached my building.

My colleague was still talking.

I was nodding at the screen

and rehearsing the disaster.

The siren kept climbing.

This is how it happens, I thought.

Not with warning. Not with a choice.

Just a sound getting louder

and your body knowing

before your mind can catch up.

Then it peaked.

Then it started fading.

The worst moment isn't the loudest part.

It's the second you realize

it's moving away from you,

that you got to keep this ordinary afternoon,

that you rehearsed the ending and got to walk out of it.

My colleague asked if I was there.

I said yes.

The siren was gone.

I was still tracking it

the way you track a door closing,

a bell still ringing

even after the sound stops.