“Well, yeah. I mean, everyone who works here.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“You work here?” I ask.
Hadley laughs. “No. Not me,” she says. “I’m only ten. I mean my dad—he’s one of the security guards at the mall, so that’s why he’s at the retreat. And I get to come too.”
I think about what Hadley just told me.
I don’t really get it.
All I know for sure is that I need to get away from the retreat and go back upstairs to the camping store, where Momma is.
“Does your mom work here?” Hadley asks. “Or your dad?”
I’m not ready for that question.
I was hoping Hadley would just keep on talking so I could relax.
I don’t know what to say.
“Um. My mom?”
“Cool,” Hadley says.
The bathroom is quiet.
All I can hear is dripping water, probably from one of the sinks. Listening to the dripping helps me relax, so I focus on the sound.
“Are you done yet?” Hadley asks.
I tighten up again. “No, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Hadley says. “I guess we don’t really need to hurry. The retreat is boring anyway.”
I’m surprised to hear Hadley say that. It seemed like everyone was having a lot of fun in Miss Trina’s room.
“Why is it boring?” I ask.
“I mean, it’s not the worst. But last year’s retreat was way, way funner. Do you remember it?”
“Um. I wasn’t there,” I say.
“Oh—you missed out. Last year, we got to run all over the entire mall. Anywhere we wanted. Both floors, top to bottom. But this year we have to stay in one room. Not even one floor—one room. It’s just boring.”
“Why?”
“Why what?” Hadley asks.
“Why do we have to stay in one room?” I ask.
Hadley doesn’t answer right away.
“I think there’s something wrong with your head,” Hadley says. “Seriously. Are you having a case of PTSD or something?”
I have no idea what PTSD means.
But I don’t want to say so because Hadley might think I’m stupid. Or boring.
“No. I’m not having PTSD.”
“Well you’re asking some really weird questions.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay. So, you know about the germs, right? Somebody brought germs into the mall, so we have to stay away from them. That’s why this year’s retreat sucks compared to last year’s.”
“Okay.”
“Didn’t you hear Miss Trina explain that to us?” Hadley asks.
“No, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Hadley says.
Neither of us talks for what feels like a long time. I keep focusing on the sound of the dripping water.
“It’s okay to be scared,” Hadley adds. “It’s normal. Okay?”
“Uh huh,” I say.
“Are you scared?” Hadley asks.
I think about the question.
Am I scared?
“Not right now,” I answer. “But a lot of the time, yeah.”
“That’s okay. It’s normal.”
A few seconds later, I start to go pee.
• • •
When Hadley and I get back to the Rug-Rat Room, everybody is moving around really fast.
Miss Trina and some of the big kids set up three of the tables with folding legs.
Everyone who’s big enough to get their own folding chair goes and gets one.
I pick a spot at one of the tables and unfold my chair, just like all the other kids do.
A few grownups come into the Rug-Rat Room carrying trays of snacks. Baby carrots and seedless red grapes and goldfish crackers and salted popcorn.
It’s incredible.
I eat as much of the food as they’ll give me, and when nobody’s looking I stuff my front pockets full of goldfish to give my momma later.
Momma loves goldfish.
While we eat our snacks, the man who brought me here—he says his name is Mr. Jim—stands at the front of the room and tells everyone to be quiet.
When the room is completely silent, Mr. Jim tells us that he needs our help.
“Those of you who are old enough—let’s say five and up—I need you to be my delivery makers,” he says. “Form a line and come with me.”
• • •
Mr. Jim leads a group of kids—including me—out of the Rug-Rat Room and down a hallway I haven’t seen before. Hadley is with us; I see her laughing with another girl ahead of me. Other than her and Miss Trina, no one has said a single word to me this whole time.
I’m not sure how to feel about that.
Part of me is happy that no one is talking to me, because I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to people I don’t know. But another part of me feels scared and alone, and I really want someone—anyone—to say something that will make me feel okay again.
After a short walk, Mr. Jim stops our group at the edge of an open area with a few couches, chairs and small tables spread around. On the carpet, I see piles and piles of different products—they look like things you would buy at different stores—all in their store packaging. Things like headphones, vitamins, bracelets, and TV sets. Laptops, watches, bandages, and boxes of tissues to blow your nose with. Even food. Boxes of cereal, bags of dried fruit, and cartons of powdered milk. All kinds of things. Just past the piles of products, I see three men dressed in security guard uniforms just like Mr. Jim’s.
I also see a coffeemaker, a water dispenser, a Coke machine, and a refrigerator—which is pretty cool, in my opinion—but the best things in the room by far are the foosball table and the dartboard.
I really hope I get to play a game. That would be fun.
A few seconds later Mr. Jim climbs on top of one of the low tables, raises his arms and tells everyone to quiet down. I notice another long black gun leaning up against the wall next to one of the security guards.
Everyone in the room goes silent.
“Here’s the task in front of us,” Mr. Jim says, pointing toward the piles of products on the carpet. “All this stuff on the floor needs to go down the hall, back to Home Base. As many trips as it takes—but we need to get it done quickly. That’s it. Clean and simple. So let’s go.” He claps his hands together once.
Right away, it seems like everyone (except me) starts moaning and groaning or shouting out complaints toward Mr. Jim. All I can hear is people telling Mr. Jim that they don’t want to carry the products back to Home Base.
Honestly, I don’t want to do it either, but I don’t say anything.
I look up at Mr. Jim—his face has turned bright red.
“Hey, everybody. That’s enough,” he says.
He stands silently on the table until the room finally quiets down.
“Listen,” he says. “I need to tell you a few things about the situation we’re in right now,” he says. “You should pay attention.”
“Are you sure that’s necessary?” asks another grownup—a lady I haven’t seen before.
Mr. Jim glares at the lady for a few seconds without speaking.
“Okay. I get it,” Mr. Jim says. “You don’t want them to be scared. And I don’t either. But would you prefer that we keep them ignorant of what’s happening?”
Mr. Jim waits like he’s giving the lady a chance to respond.
After a little while, he stops staring at Miss Trina and starts looking around at the faces of the kids; he never looks at me, which I’m thankful for.
He makes a big sigh.
“Here’s what happened,” he says. “A little while ago, someone came down from the second level and broke into the pharmacy—it’s on the corner of Block F near the elevators. Anyway, this son-of-a-bitch smashed in the front window and ripped off a bunch of medical supplies. It looks like they had no clue what to take, so they just grabbed whatever they could lay their hands on in
short order. Made a huge mess in the process, naturally.”
“So what?” asks one of the older teenagers—a tall boy with long brown hair under a backward baseball cap. “Insurance. That’s what it’s for.”
Mr. Jim glares at the boy.
“First of all, this place is not just some ordinary building listed on an insurance policy. This is our house—it may seem silly, but you should think of it that way. My house, your mom’s and dad’s house, and your house. Every one of our families makes a living from the work done in this building, from custodial to management. This building is the reason we have food on our tables, and the reason you can afford to wear that stupid hat on your head, Kevin. So I don’t plan on letting some strangers walk into our house and start looting. Emergency or no emergency. It doesn’t make a bit of difference. When this nightmare ends, the people upstairs will go home to whatever third-world rathole they came from, but me and your parents? We will have to go back to work in this mall, and I mean to make sure it’s still standing when that time comes.”
Mr. Jim stops talking. He still looks really angry—I can see his chest rising and falling.
“Second thing,” he says. “This situation we’re in? It may seem like nothing to some of you. And you might be right. We could be getting out of here as soon as today—and hopefully we will be—but what if this thing doesn’t end today? Have you thought about what we’re going to do if we have to stay here awhile?”
“Hookers and blow?” the teenager answers. A lot of kids—mostly the older girls—look at him and laugh.
Hookers and blow?
“That’s fine,” Mr. Jim says, nodding. “You can make your little jokes and act like everything’s all right, but you know what? I’ve been reading what the news stories online are saying about our situation, and let me share a key detail with you all—they estimate that around three hundred people are hiding somewhere above us right now. Three hundred potentially sick people. And I know for a fact that you little smartasses aren’t going to be laughing if the natives upstairs start getting restless, let me assure you.”
The boy with the backward hat makes a snorting sound. It’s kind of like a scoff, only meaner somehow.
“They’re not a bunch of beasts,” he says. “What do you think they’re going to do?”
Mr. Jim shrugs. “Mob up. That’s what I think they might do. They might break into the Mountain Sports outlet and grab a few hunting rifles from the showcase. After that, they might come down here and try to take more than just a few items from the pharmacy. In fact, they might leave us with nothing we can use to keep ourselves alive and comfortable. When you put a group of seemingly rational people in a crisis, shit happens that you wouldn’t even imagine. Believe me.”
“Have you thought of—I don’t know—sharing some of what we have?” the boy asks. “Like, on a voluntary basis?”
“Yes, I have,” Mr. Jim says. “And we will do that, Kevin. But the point is that we will decide what to share and when. The point is that we will maintain control of what’s ours and distribute it as we see fit.”
“Wow, boss. Are you making all the decisions now?” the boy asks. I think his name is Kevin because Mr. Jim called him that.
“Not just me,” Mr. Jim answers. “Your parents and I have had a number of sit-downs, and we’re all on the same page. The plan is this. We gather the supplies we need—as well as anything we think is at risk—and then we keep the first floor on lockdown. We treat the entire second floor as lost.”
“Lost?” Kevin asks. “What does that even mean?”
“Let me put it this way. From what I’ve read online, the medical teams in the Bay Area are flat-out refusing to enter this building right now,” Mr. Jim says. “They’re claiming that they’re not sufficiently trained or properly equipped to deal with whatever this thing is. That’s what the news sites say, Kevin. That’s why we treat the second floor as lost.”
• • •
I make a total of eleven trips carrying supplies back to the conference rooms.
I stack everything in the room next to the Rug-Rat room. Mr. Jim calls that room the Supply Room. The Supply Room looks exactly like the Rug-Rat Room, except there are no tables or chairs or sleeping bags inside.
Each time I make a trip, a grownup helps me sort whatever I’m carrying into different sections of the room.
One area is for medical stuff from the pharmacy—mostly pill bottles, boxes, and foil blister-packs.
One area is for rings, bracelets, necklaces, and watches from a first-floor jewelry store.
One area is for electronics—phones, tablets, and laptops—from the two computer storefront displays.
One area is for food and drinks from Food Plus—things that don’t need to be in the refrigerator like fruit, bread, peanut butter, cereal, and other packaged foods like beef jerky, granola bars, and jars of cashews. Also bottles of water and bottles of wine in cardboard six-pack carriers.
It’s almost dark outside by the time we finish delivering the last load. I see the moon and a handful of stars through a window in the room with the foosball table. When we return to the Rug-Rat room, Miss Trina announces that we need to get ready for bed. She says we should find our backpacks, grab our toothbrushes, and go to the restroom together in groups of ten. She reminds us to bring our PJs along so that we can change our clothes also.
I stand in the corner of the room near the pile of sleeping bags and watch as the kids scatter everywhere to collect their things. Everyone seems to be talking at once.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
All of the other kids have the things they need.
All of them understand where they need to go.
All of them seem to know one another.
All of them belong here.
But I don’t.
And what’s worse is that I’m scared someone will discover that I don’t—that I’m really from the second floor, not from the first floor—and then they won’t let me stay here anymore. I’ll be thrown out.
What I really wish is that I could ask Miss Trina and Mr. Jim to help me bring Momma down to the Rug-Rat room where it’s bright and safe and people seem to be friends, and then the grownups in charge could help Momma, and I could play with the other kids until we were allowed to go home. But I don’t think I can ask Miss Trina or Mr. Jim to help me because they don’t want second-floor people like me or Momma to be part of their retreat. I can tell by the way Mr. Jim was talking earlier.
I have no idea what I should do.
Most of the kids have found their toothbrushes, tubes of toothpaste and PJs—now it looks like they’re trying to figure out how to make groups of ten with their best friends. I need to decide what to do before someone notices that I don’t have a group of my own.
“Jasmine,” a voice says.
I look across the room and see Hadley. A group of girls is standing with her. She waves for me to come over.
I decide to do what Hadley wants me to do.
“Hi,” I say.
I look at the other girls—all five of them are around the same height as Hadley. Every girl is looking in a different direction; they ignore me completely.
“Do you want to be in our group?” Hadley asks.
I think about it for a few seconds.
“Okay,” I answer.
The group of us—Hadley, her friends, and I—leave the Rug-Rat Room and head down a corridor toward the girls’ restroom. The girls are walking in front of me; I stay behind them.
Soon Hadley turns around, makes eye contact, and stops. I stop too; the rest of the girls keep on going.
Hadley bends down a little bit so she’s closer to my ear, like a grownup might do.
“What’s the matter?” she whispers.
I don’t know how to explain so I just shrug.
I watch the backs of the five girls as they turn the corner of the hallway and disappear.
“Are you still scared?” Hadley asks.
&nbs
p; Yes.
I really am.
“Kind of,” I say.
“I told you. It’s okay.”
I nod. “I know.”
“You can bring your sleeping bag next to mine if you want to,” Hadley says, “and if your mom and dad are all right with it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
Hadley and I start walking again. As we get closer to the restroom, I think about what she said—if my mom and dad are all right with it—and I start to panic. What if everyone’s parents come into the Rug-Rat Room except for mine? What if someone asks me where they went? And what if someone wants to talk to them?
I stop walking. Hadley takes a few more steps before stopping also.
“I need to go back,” I say.
Hadley stares at me. “You forgot your stuff, didn’t you.”
I look down at my empty hands. “Oops,” I say. “Yeah, I guess I did. I’ll catch up to you later.”
Hadley smiles. “See you later,” she says.
I turn around and jog in the opposite direction, down the hallway, back the way I came.
Once I round the corner and drop out of sight, I start to run.
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