The second thing he notices is the grit in the air - he blinks, a couple times, and rubs his eyes.

The third thing he notices is that the box fan has a cut-open sandbag right behind it.  So maybe that's why the air feels so gritty, because there's a box fan blowing sand directly into his eyes.

He steps out of the path of the fan, which is a bit better but not completely, and takes a sip of his water, and glances warily around.

Looks like a reception area, not the sort of room you'd do actual auto work in.  The box fan / sandbag setup is on a counter on the opposite wall.  There's a red door, to the right of the entrance, which should lead to the garage.

That door catches his eye for some reason, though he can't say why.  Sip.

The box fan hums.

He blinks another speck of sand out of his eye.  Sip.

He should probably get out of here.

 - and yet, it feels like there's something on the other side of that door.

Thump.

Okay yeah he definitely needs to get out of here.

His hand stops, on the handle to the exit door.

He has a feeling, absurd, from nowhere, that someone on the other side of that door might need his help.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

He's frozen, for a moment, between his urge to run and the pressure he suddenly feels to check, to see what's happening on the other side of that door.

Thump thump thumpthumpthump in increasing frustration.

just run, just let me run and pretend i didn't hear anything, it probably isn't anything, i don't want to be in this building right now

This time, instead of another thump, there is a harsh mechanical buzz, like some sort of power tool starting up.

oh god

He edges, fearfully, toward the red door, and reaches out with one hand, and pulls it open.

There is a garage, empty of cars.

There is a tall man, wrapped in blankets, hands clad in heavy-duty yellow gloves like gardening gloves, holding a running power drill in one hand.

And there is his blue box, and she is afraid -

And the man turns, and sees him through a welding mask, and, still holding the power drill in one hand, begins to walk purposefully toward him.

nonono

i'm sorry

He slams the door shut and glances desperately around for a chair to brace it with and doesn't find one and just runs, out the front door -

The metallic rattle of the door to the garage, sliding open, upward, in the thick-gloved hands of the blanket-wrapped man.

He's already running - he's barely looking - he's past the garage door and heading for the alleyway -

The pounding of heavy footfalls behind him.