No answer. He peered around. A few shapes stood here and there: a man reading a newspaper, two women waiting at the elevator.
Ed made his way over to the man. He reached out and touched him.
The man slowly collapsed. He settled into a heap, a loose pile of gray ash. Dust. Particles. The two women dissolved when he touched them. Silently. They made no sound as they broke apart.
Ed found the stairs. He grabbed hold of the banister and climbed. The stairs collapsed under him. He hurried faster. Behind him lay a broken path — his footprints clearly visible in the concrete. Clouds of ash blew around him as he reached the second floor.
He gazed down the silent corridor. He saw more clouds of ash. He heard no sound. There was just darkness — rolling darkness.
He climbed unsteadily to the third floor. Once, his shoe broke completely through the stair. For a sickening second he hung, poised over a yawning hole that looked down into a bottomless nothing.
Then he climbed on, and emerged in front of his own office:
DOUGLAS AND BLAKE, REAL ESTATE.
The hall was dim, gloomy with clouds of ash. The overhead lights flickered fitfully. He reached for the door handle. The handle came off in his hand. He dropped it and dug his fingernails into the door. The plate glass crashed past him, breaking into bits. He tore the door open and stepped over it, into the office.
Miss Evans sat at her typewriter, fingers resting quietly on the keys. She did not move. She was gray, her hair, her skin, her clothing. She was without color. Ed touched her. His fingers went through her shoulder, into dry flakiness.