Read this narrative and take note of how the writer has kept the narrative in the past tense, you should to the same.
I arrived in Seattle on a cold, rainy night in October. As I stepped off the train and heard the door close behind me, I suddenly realised I had left my purse in the overhead compartment. This stupid event was the latest in a series that had plagued me all day, suggesting I should have just stayed in bed.
Cursing myself under my breath, I trudged along the rain-soaked street looking for a payphone. Finally, six blocks later, one appeared in front of a market to my left. I fumbled in my pocket for some change and the number I had written on a scrap of paper before leaving my apartment twelve hours before. Luckily, the phone wasn’t as grungy as I had expected it to be, so I dropped my quarters in the slot and waited for that familiar voice.
“Sis, it’s me.”
“Good gracious, are you all right? I’ve been worried sick!”
“I’m not great, but I’m here. Can you come get me?”
“Before you can hang up, I’ll be there.”
I had been sitting there only a few minutes when she sped around the corner and skidded to a stop in front of the phone booth. The car was battered and cold, but I would have happily jumped into a manure truck at that point. I huddled in my seat and shivered, waiting for her to ask the question I knew she would.