At five past three in the afternoon as I was exiting the toilet stall in the men's room on the 16th floor, the wall-mounted TimeMist air-freshening capsule emitted its squirt of sweetly nauseating mist. I gazed at the device while the aerated compound thinned into the atmosphere. There appeared to be sticky orange residue, specked with dust, around the orifice from which the product emanated.

I turned the wrong way out the door, walked the wrong way down the
wrong hall. All of a sudden left was right. West was east and north
was south.