Turn left onto Albert Street.

Turn left, then turn right.

In–

The GPS falls silent with a dismissive press of your thumb. The building's in sight. You'll take it from here.

You turn the steering wheel and meander vaguely in the building's direction, scouting out any nearby openings. The email recommended the south-southwest parking lot, and you're angling for a close spot; in this heat, parking on the outer edge will leave you sweaty and disheveled by the time you reach the door.

No luck. The rows near the building are all closed. You crane your neck to read the signs on the covered parking nearby– reserved. You drum your fingers on the steering wheel and turn again.

The sun drills through the windshield and you feel your collar start to stick on your skin. You angle the air vents down slightly. Sweat beads on your forehead.

You turn back down one of the further rows, remembering that you noticed an empty spot earlier. It's full. You coast down the line just fast enough that the cars blur together, and count the seconds until you reach the end– twenty-six.

It's still warm. You crack open the window and a hot breeze fans the side of your face. In the rearview mirror you catch sight of a sedan pulling out of its spot. You turn the wheel.

It's your third trip down this row. The cars remain unfocused despite the dip in your speedometer. You glance at the mirage at the end of the lot blending in with the parked cars and miss your spot. 

Fourth trip. The spot's full. You slam your hand on the steering wheel. 

You reach for your phone to turn on your GPS. The app's logo bounces and spins. Two minutes pass by, according to the dashboard clock. You're still driving down the same row.

You switch off your phone. Turning into another section of the parking lot, you maneuver the curves of the road with a white-knuckle grip. More full lots. You decide to try an adjacent parking lot, and look about for an exit.

None of your turns lead to one. Each path connects into another section. You peer at the small parking lot map posted at one of the junctions; none of the sections are labeled, except for the covered lot, which is marked as 'Reserved'. You can't tell which gaps mark the exits; some of the map has peeled off in the heat.

You spot a few figures heading into the building. You drive closer. Your car is pointed directly at the building, but the distance between you stays the same. With each turn of the lot you see the figures at a different angle. They enter the building.

There's another map. Someone's closed off all the exits with permanent marker. You try to find the row you drove on for reference, but all you can see are covered lots.

Your shirt is sticking to your skin. You adjust the climate control, but the dial is already set to max. You adjust the sun visor and it droops at a diagonal, blocking your view of the building somewhat.

You pump the gas slightly and your engine roars, unmuffled by the cracked-open window. You shut the window but you already smell gasoline mixed with the dust. The end of the row comes up just short enough to make you slam your brakes, and the visor flops comically about. 

You dig new grooves into the steering wheel with your fingernails, and begin turning the next corner. Leaning forward, you peer at the building in the distance, and the visor smacks against your forehead.

You stop the car.

Briefly, you lean your forehead against the steering wheel and scream.

You press your cheek to the wheel. The car horn goes off– its sound echoes across the parking lot and beyond. A distant figure turns and stares before entering the building.

You nearly claw off your seatbelt, hissing when the burning metal buckle grazes your skin. The seat belt snaps and reels back into place with a thwap. You open the door.

You step out of the car.

The parking lot stretches before you, and around you, and behind you. Only the covered parking to the northeast blocks your line of sight. The building remains hazy in the distance, veiled by the wavering air. Distance patches of asphalt glint with a mirage-given shimmer. Few are visible between the rows, and rows, and rows, of parked cars.

You check your phone. You're still five minutes early. Counting back the time you've spent only tightens the knot between your brows. 

Fuck it. Truly, fuck it. You hoist yourself atop the concrete base of a light fixture, shade your eyes with your hands, and search for a way in– or out.

The parking lot stretches further than your eyes can reach. The rows, uncountable. The building, a world apart. The covered lots form a wall, snakelike, between asphalt strips you trace in vain. There is no path. There are too many paths. Your head spins counting the dead ends, the u-turns, the coils and medians and the endless, endless, circuit board of tar and machinery and faded signage.

You step back down with shaking legs. Blood is pounding in your ears; your mouth's gone dry. Five minutes to go.

Heat rapidly builds in your eyes and in your throat, and your hands scramble for your phone, swiping to reach the navigation app–

A car pulls out of a parking space before you.

You nearly hurl yourself back into the car. One shaking hand on the steering wheel, the other turning the key. You can make it. You can join them. You can still get in on time.

If only, you think to yourself, as you shut the door and set foot on the asphalt path, you could remember what you were trying to be on time for in the first place.