A TV flashes static from its angled location in the high back corner. Empty trays sit perching on a shelf waiting to be of use. Three evenly spaced registers sit void of cashiers. I cannot see past the swinging doors of the kitchen, and I have learned that silence does not always mean empty. I am debating the choices laid before me as the sound stirs down the hall behind us. Limping Margaret has finally caught up with us, and by the level of sounds, she is not alone. Nor is her new army happy with our escape. I ease him to the floor holding a finger to my lips. Slowly I close the doors and motion for him to walk ahead of me to the kitchen. There is no place to hide in this large room designed with that fact in mind. It is made for easy viewing from all angles. This room was designed to keep the twisted things we are running from safe and comfortable. For a moment, it feels as if we have run straight into a trap of their design. A room they have spent hours of their short spanned lives in already wraps its arms around us in what I know to be our final meeting.
