The girl held on for a long moment.

  Then she looked up again, and her face changed. The relief flickered. Dimmed. Her brow furrowed as she studied Mark's face more closely—the dark hair, the glasses, the sharp features.

  "You're not Papa," she said.

  Mark exhaled. "No. I'm not."

  The girl's grip loosened. She took a step back, eyes darting between Mark and Maggie, the fear creeping back in. Not as intense as before, but there—cautious, uncertain.

  "You look like him," she said quietly. "But you're too young."

  "I get that a lot," Mark said.

  Maggie shot him a look. He ignored it.

  The girl's lower lip trembled. She looked around at the endless mall, the faceless crowd, the carousel turning its silent loops behind her.

  "I can't find them," she whispered. "Mama and Papa. I was holding Mama's hand and then there were so many people and I let go and now I can't find them anywhere."

  "Hey." Maggie crouched down to the girl's level. "It's okay. We're going to help you find them. What's your name?"

  The girl looked at her with those wide brown eyes. "Jean."

  "How old are you, Jean?"

  "Five." She held up one hand, fingers spread.

  "Five. That's a good age." Maggie smiled. "I'm Maggie." She gestured at Mark. "And this is Mark. He's grumpy, but he's not as scary as he looks."

  "I don't look scary," Mark said.

  "You kind of do."

  Locke stepped forward, tail wagging gently. Jean's eyes went wide.

  "Puppy!" She reached out tentatively, then looked at Mark. "Can I pet him?"

  "He's not—" Mark started, then stopped. "Sure. Go ahead."

  Jean crouched down and buried her hands in Locke's fur. The husky stood perfectly still, enduring the attention with the patience of someone who had done this many times before. His tail picked up speed.

  "He's so soft," Jean whispered.

  "His name is Locke," Maggie said.

  "Hi, Locke." Jean scratched behind his ears. Some of the fear had faded from her face. "You're a good boy."

  Locke's tail was a blur now.

  Jean stood back up, still looking at the dog. She almost smiled. Almost.

  "Jean," Mark said, his voice shifting into something more formal. "Can you provide any additional details about your parents' last known location? Identifying features, direction of travel, approximate time of separation?"

  Jean stared at him blankly.

  Maggie pinched the bridge of her nose. "Mark. She's five."

  "I'm aware of her age."

  "Then maybe don't talk to her like she's filing a police report."

  Mark opened his mouth, closed it, and looked at Jean with the expression of someone who had just been handed a problem he wasn't equipped to solve.

  Maggie turned back to the girl. "Jean, sweetie. What do your mama and papa look like?"

  "Mama has brown hair. Papa has glasses like him." She pointed at Mark. "But he's older. And he has a beard."

  "Good. That's helpful. Do you remember which way they went?"

  Jean shook her head. "There were monsters."

  Maggie's stomach tightened. "Monsters?"

  "Behind us. Chasing us." Jean's voice got smaller. "That's why we were running. That's why I let go."

  Maggie glanced at Mark. His expression had sharpened.

  "What kind of monsters?" he asked. His voice was gentler this time, though it clearly took effort.

  "I don't know." Jean hugged herself. "Big ones. Scary ones. Mama said don't look back. So I didn't."

  Mark looked at the crowd flowing around them, then at the corridors stretching in every direction. The nightmare hadn't gotten worse since they'd found Jean—if anything, the space felt slightly more stable. Finding her had helped. But the mention of monsters meant there was more to this than a simple lost-in-a-crowd anxiety dream.

  "We'll find them," Maggie said. "We'll find your mama and papa, okay? You just stay with us."

  Jean nodded. Then she reached up and grabbed Mark's hand.

  Mark went very still.

  Maggie watched him look down at the small hand wrapped around his fingers. For a moment, he seemed completely lost—like he'd forgotten what hands were for.

  "She wants you to hold her hand," Maggie said helpfully.

  "I can see that."

  "So hold her hand."

  "I am holding her hand."

  "You're letting her hold your hand. There's a difference."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Mark's jaw tightened. Very carefully, like he was handling something fragile and explosive, he adjusted his grip to actually hold Jean's hand properly.

  Jean seemed satisfied. She looked up at him with something approaching trust.

  Maggie grinned. "Natural."

  "Shut up."

  "You're a natural with kids, Mark. Really. Very paternal."

  "I will leave you here."

  "No you won't. You're too responsible." She started walking, scanning the storefronts. "Come on, Papa. Let's find her parents."

  Mark's expression could have curdled milk. But he followed, Jean's hand still clutched in his, Locke padding along at his other side.

  · · ·

  They walked.

  The mall continued to shift around them, but less aggressively now. Corridors still didn't connect the way they should, and stores still rearranged themselves when no one was looking directly at them, but the hostile quality had faded. Jean wasn't as scared anymore. The nightmare was responding to that.

  "So," Maggie said, falling into step beside Mark. "Papa."

  "Don't."

  "I'm just saying. She took one look at you and—"

  "She was scared. I was the first adult she saw. It's not complicated."

  "She said you look like her dad."

  "I have a common face."

  "You really don't."

  Jean tugged on Mark's hand. "Are you married?"

  Mark looked down at her like she'd asked him to explain quantum physics. "What?"

  "Mama and Papa are married. Are you married?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I'm busy."

  "With what?"

  "Things."

  "What things?"

  Mark shot Maggie a desperate look. She was enjoying this far too much to intervene.

  "Work things," he said finally. "Very important work things that take up all my time."

  "Papa works too. But he still got married."

  "Your papa is clearly better at multitasking than I am."

  Jean considered this. "You should try harder."

  Maggie snorted. Mark's eye twitched.

  "I'll take that under advisement," he said flatly.

  They passed a toy store with stuffed animals in the window. Jean's eyes lingered on them for a moment, then she looked away.

  "I dropped Mr. Bear," she said quietly. "When I saw you. I forgot to pick him up."

  "We can go back for him," Maggie offered.

  Jean shook her head, eyes downcast.

  Mark held out his free hand, palm up. For a moment, nothing happened. Then something shimmered into existence—a stuffed bear, small and brown, well-worn in the way that suggested years of hugging.

  Jean's eyes went wide. "Mr. Bear!"

  She grabbed it with both hands, squeezing it tight against her chest. "Thank you thank you thank you!"

  Maggie raised an eyebrow at Mark. He very deliberately did not look at her.

  "Don't."

  "I didn't say anything."

  "You were thinking it."

  They turned another corner. This section of the mall looked different—older, the lights dimmer. The storefronts were still there, but the displays had changed. Less colorful. More static.

  Maggie noticed the mannequins first.

  They were in every window now. Standing in poses that were almost natural but not quite. Arms raised mid-gesture. Heads turned at angles that suggested attention.

  "Mark."

  "I see them."

  They kept walking. Jean had gone quiet, pressing closer to Mark's leg.

  Maggie checked behind them. The mannequin in the store they'd just passed—she could have sworn it had been facing the other way.

  "They're closer," she said.

  "I know."

  "How do we—"

  A mannequin stepped out of a window.

  No transition. No dramatic reveal. One moment it was posed behind glass; the next it was standing in the corridor, its blank face turned toward them. Then another. And another. They emerged from storefronts on both sides, moving with that wrong smoothness, joints bending in ways that suggested they'd never been designed to move at all.

  Jean screamed.

  She let go of Mark's hand and grabbed onto his leg instead, wrapping both arms around it, face buried against his coat. Her small body shook.

  "Maggie," Mark said.

  "I see them."

  "I can't move."

  He wasn't being metaphorical. Jean's grip had effectively pinned his leg in place. He could probably pry her off, but that would require using both hands and taking his attention off the mannequins closing in around them.

  "I've got it," Maggie said.

  The first mannequin lunged.

  Maggie met it with a punch that cracked its torso down the middle. The thing didn't have weight the way a real body would—it was hollow, brittle, more shell than substance. But it kept moving, arms reaching for her even as pieces of it fell away.

  She kicked it into the one behind it. Both went down in a tangle of plastic limbs.

  Locke was already moving. The husky launched himself at a mannequin approaching from the right, teeth sinking into its arm and tearing it clean off. He shook it once, dropped it, and went for the next one.

  More were coming. They poured out of the storefronts in a steady stream, drawn by Jean's fear, feeding on it.

  "Jean," Mark said, his voice carefully controlled. "I need you to be brave for me. Can you do that?"

  A muffled sob against his leg.

  "I know you're scared. But Maggie and Locke are protecting us. You're safe. I need you to breathe. Can you breathe for me?"

  Maggie drove her elbow through a mannequin's head. "Anytime you want to help—"

  "I'm working on it."

  Jean's grip loosened. Just slightly. Mark crouched down—awkward, with her still clinging to him—and put a hand on her back.

  "Good. That's good. Keep breathing. In and out."

  Another mannequin shattered under Maggie's fist. Locke had two more cornered, snapping at them with vicious efficiency.

  "The less scared you are," Mark said to Jean, "the fewer of them there will be. Do you understand? You're making them because you're afraid. If you can be brave, they'll go away."

  Jean looked up at him. Tears streaked her face, but something in her expression shifted. She nodded once, small and determined.

  "Okay," she whispered. "Okay."

  The flow of mannequins slowed. The ones still standing seemed to hesitate, their movements becoming jerky, uncertain.

  Maggie took the opportunity to clear out the remaining few. Locke finished off the stragglers.

  Silence settled over the corridor. Broken plastic bodies littered the floor, already starting to fade into grey mist.

  Jean was still holding onto Mark's leg, but looser now. She peeked out at the destruction.

  "I did that?" she asked.

  "Your fear did," Mark said. "But you also made them stop. That's the important part."

  Jean looked at Maggie, then at Locke, then back at Mark. "You have a really cool dog."

  "Thanks," Maggie said. "I named him."

  "You named his dog?"

  "He was going to name him Mark II."

  Jean wrinkled her nose. "That's a bad name."

  "Thank you." Maggie shot Mark a triumphant look. "See? Even the five-year-old knows."

  "Can we focus?" Mark straightened up, gently disentangling himself from Jean's grip. She let go, but immediately reached for his hand again. He took it without comment this time. "We need to keep moving. Find her parents before something else shows up."

  They started walking again. The corridor ahead curved in a direction that shouldn't have existed, but Jean seemed calmer now. The nightmare was stabilizing around her reduced fear.

  "You're good at that," Maggie said quietly, falling into step beside him.

  "At what?"

  "Talking her down. I thought you didn't know how to deal with kids."

  "I don't." He adjusted his glasses with his free hand. "I know how to deal with fear. Kids aren't that different."

  "That's either profound or deeply concerning."

  "Probably both."

  Jean tugged on his hand. "I hear something."

  They stopped. Listened.

  At first, nothing. Just the ambient hum of the nightmare mall, the distant murmur of the crowd that never quite materialized into words.

  Then Maggie heard it too.

  A clicking sound. Rhythmic. Coming from somewhere ahead.

  Click. Click. Click.

  "What is that?" Maggie asked.

  Jean's hand tightened in Mark's grip. "The monsters," she whispered. "The ones that were chasing us. That's what they sound like."

  The clicking grew louder. Closer. Maggie could feel it now—something approaching, something big, multiple somethings moving in sync.

  She turned to face the sound.

  And her blood went cold.

  They came around the corner in a wave. Cockroaches. Massive ones—each the size of a large dog, their shells gleaming under the mall's fluorescent lights. Antennae twitched. Legs clicked against the tile floor in that horrible rhythmic pattern. Dozens of them. Maybe more.

  Maggie couldn't move.

  Her body locked up. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to fight, to do something—but she couldn't. The panic hit her like a wave, drowning out everything else.

  "Maggie." Mark's voice came from somewhere far away. "Maggie, we need to move."

  She couldn't. Her feet were rooted to the floor. Her hands wouldn't unclench from fists that weren't doing anything useful.

  "MAGGIE."

  The cockroaches surged forward.

  Mark grabbed her arm with his free hand—the other still holding Jean—and pulled. Hard.

  "RUN."

  They ran.