The sudden bone-jarring stop propelled her into the corner of the cubicle, and she knew. She knew. The elevator was stuck. She was stuck in the elevator. Trapped! 

Wild-eyed, fighting the hysteria rising in her throat, Savena held her white-knuckled fist against her mouth. If she didn’t start screaming, she theorized, then she wouldn’t have to worry about trying to stop. Shuddering, utterly determined to master her overpowering fear, she drew a long breath. Fuming indignation became her weapon. 

“Well! This shoots to hell seven months of intensive therapy . . . not to mention enough money to buy a new van,” she muttered darkly. “Dear Dr. Winkle. Wait till I get my hands around your scrawny turkey neck. ‘Ah, Ms. Alexander,’” she mimicked in his old raspy voice. Her fingers steepled in a pontifical gesture. “ ‘Your claustrophobia is cured. You will never be bothered by it again. I am certain.’ ” 

To be honest, she had thought so, too, because she could ride in elevators these past three months with no ill effects. It was like a miracle! She had not been able to force herself into one of these small moving boxes since, when she was ten, her father had inadvertently locked her into a storage closet. She was playing hide and seek with him. He thought she was next door playing with her friends and he had gone on an errand. When he returned an hour later, he found her, hysterical and completely terrified by her experience. From that day she was plagued by harsh nightmares and the fear of enclosed places. Finally, as an adult, she had taken matters into her own hands and sought treatment. She had seemed to be cured. 

“Ha! Let’s face it, Savena,” she taunted. “You just haven’t been in a situation to warrant a return of your old fears . . . until now!” In a near frenzy, she walked the boundaries of her metal cage, circling like a wary animal, seeking escape, knowing there was none. Repeatedly she banged and kicked against the walls in frustration. Gathering her energy, she yelled at the top of  her lungs. “Mr. Goldblum! Mr. Goldblum, the elevator is stuck. Mr. Goldblum! Do you hear me?” 

Faintly, she heard the guttural response of her business associate and old friend. “Yah, Savena. I hear you. Do not be afraid, little dove. I will get help right away. Try to keep your  mind occupied. I won’t be long.” 

She exhaled in giddy relief. Mr. Goldblum knew she was here. Thank goodness! What  had he said? Oh, yes. Keep your mind occupied. He knew about her fear and had encouraged her to seek therapy. He himself had gotten help when he had come to America after his release  from a Nazi concentration camp. Everyone has some secret inner fear, he had told her. Well, she would take his advice. Keep occupied. 

Glaring at her party equipment, she gave the tall helium tank parked in the center of the  floor a decisive kick in its wheeled base. “You, O brassy barrel of hot air, are going to be my  willing accomplice.” With that brave command, she set to work filling balloons of varied bright  colors. Each rubber vial expanded to eye-popping proportions, then hissed in complaint when  she slipped a tight knot on its lippy end and fastened a length of glittery string to its neck. Like a  mother hen, she clucked at her fat, round friends, watching distractedly as each floated to the  ceiling of her cell. 

“Hey, you guys! Stop your complaining. You’re going to a birthday party . . . or had you  forgotten?” She attached a sunshine yellow balloon to the tank and filled it with gas. Tying the  string, she released it to float to the ceiling of the elevator. “Now,” she said cheerily to the  balloon, “you are for Katie, the birthday girl. You’re bright, just like she is.” She grimaced in  self-contempt. “You’re also the color of a coward …me!” 

She pulled at a blue ball of light. “And you’re for how sad I feel that I haven’t overcome  my childish fear…“ Then she grabbed at a green balloon. “You make me green with envy  because I can’t … and, oh, damn!” She touched a red balloon. “And I see red when I think  about all the time and money and effort I’ve wasted.” 

Frantically she continued to fill balloon after balloon until the elevator was so crammed  with the floating signals of her distress that they began to bounce off her head. “Gads! A  three-foot-thick blanket of balloons,” she exclaimed. “If help doesn’t come soon, I’ll be  buried.” Unaware that hysteria was taking control of her actions, she giggled wildly. “Hey,  that’s not a bad idea. If I get lost in a cloud of balloons, I won’t know I’m trapped.” 

Her voice rose in dangerous octaves as she tried to hide from her entrapment. Her skin  felt hot; her fingers shook. But she continued her task, methodically filling one wilted petal after  another. Like a quavering echo, she began to sing in hushed high tones. “She was only a bird in  a gilded cage. . .” 

Her mind switched to automatic and began to replace her fear with fantasy. “Superman!  That’s who’ll come to save me. He’ll break through these walls like so much cardboard. He’ll  lift me into his arms and fly me to safety.” Concentrating on her whimsical imagery, she pictured  Clark Kent dashing into the nearest phone booth and changing into his Superman costume  seconds before he came to her rescue. “Superman! Please hurry,” she entreated in a whisper.  “I’m . . . so . . . scared.

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