They march me through the upstairs of the middle of the mall.
A group of pigeons complain then flap off, squabbling. We veer what I think is south–north–no, that doesn’t make sense. South–east–northwest? West–east? I’ve lost my bearings. The kidnappers know their way, though.
There’s a dozen of them and they have sharp, pointy weapons, which makes me anxious, but they aren’t jabbing me in the ass, and they haven’t separated me from Mumshine and Hopey, who’s crying and trying to wriggle out of Mumshine’s arms. I don’t have to walk with these guys, I suppose. I could just stop, turn away, and grope through the dimness back to my food court, my mummified KFC, my barricade of chair legs. My greasy chicken goo in the bucket. I could live in Toys R Us and give my girl an endless supply of Bean
