Drill

The alarm was still going when I made it outside.

I didn't know it was a drill.

I stood in the parking lot

with my hands at my sides

and I could feel them—

a fine, shallow tremor

like they'd received information

I hadn't been copied on.

Someone nearby said

it's always a drill on Tuesdays

and laughed.

I looked at my hands.

Eleven minutes.

Then the all-clear.

Then the walk back in

past everyone who'd been mildly annoyed

and was already over it.

I went to my desk.

I put my hands flat on the surface.

I sat there until I looked like someone

who had not just stood in a parking lot

trembling over nothing.

The trembling stopped.

Or I stopped tracking it.

Which is different.