The terrified woman stared at the sea of vehicles, but only saw hers: a small red Datsun that was parked next to one of the several large lamps designed to help drivers find their cars in winter months. She strode along at a fast walking pace, the paperwork clutched to her chest. She was running on autopilot, not hearing or seeing anything but her car.
When she reached her vehicle and tried the door handle, she remembered that the car was locked, and the keys were in her handbag, which was upstairs in her office. Becca fell to her knees and screamed to herself, shocked she had made it this far, only to fail now. Then she heard a voice calling her. It was Brad, the security officer, a stocky man with a doughnut belly and beady eyes behind round glasses. He was in his late fifties with more
