4:17 P.M.
Miranda rounds on Amina. “You work here,” she says through gritted teeth. “You know which way the door closes! Why didn’t you say something while we were busting our butts?”
Now all the killers need to do is yank open the door, poke one of their guns between the shelves, and spray the room.
Amina puts her hands on her hips. “Hey, it was your idea, not mine! I was pushing too. I just didn’t think of it.”
“Be quiet!” Cole puts his finger to his lips. “They’ll hear you!”
Part of Miranda knows he’s right, but another part welcomes the anger surging through her veins, burning off some of her terror. “Maybe she wants them to hear us. After all, she’s the one in the hijab.”
“What are you talking about?” Amina whispers.
Grace opens her eyes and looks back and forth between them.
“Allahu akbar, isn’t that it?” Miranda says, “What Muslims say when they shoot people or blow up a bomb?”
Amina’s eyes widen. “Did you hear someone saying that? It means God is great. Something no terrorists understand.”
Rather than answer, Miranda looks away. That had been the terrifying thing. The shooters hadn’t said anything. But why else would anyone do such a hateful thing?
“I’m as American as the rest of you. I’m sick of people calling me a terrorist just because I cover my hair. There’s crazy people in every religion.” Amina raises her chin. “And if I was part of it, why would I be trapped in here?”
“I didn’t hear anyone saying anything about any kind of God.” Cole closes his eyes and swallows. “But I’m sure those guys have some kind of agenda.”
“Yeah,” Javier says quietly. “They want to kill a lot of people. What difference does it make why they want to?”
“All right. I’m sorry,” Miranda spits out. She moves back toward Javier. It’s only a few steps, but by the time she reaches him her legs feel too weak to support her weight. She sinks down on the loose mat of sweaters. She was okay when she was helping him or trying to barricade the door. But her head replays a loop of horror. The blood blooming on Grace’s mom’s chest. The expression on the face of the lady with the red scarf when the bullet hit her. The curly-haired woman’s legs churning against the blood-streaked floor until a shot stilled her forever.
How long will it be until everyone in this room is just as dead?
A touch on her hand makes her jerk, her heart hammering. But it’s just Javier. He gives her hand a squeeze, then takes his away.
Miranda looks around the room. Cole is rubbing his face with his palms. Amina is biting her lip as she types on her phone. Tears roll down Grace’s face as she mutters “Daddy” and “Mom,” stabbing a button on her phone over and over.
Cole looks up. “What have you guys heard in the last few minutes?”
“You mean out there?” Miranda forces herself to think back. “Nothing. Not since that guy made those announcements.”
“I think the killing has stopped. If people were still being shot, the cops would force their way in. But if they’re not, the cops will try to negotiate.”
How long could that take? The sweaters under Javier’s leg are already splotched with red. He needs a better bandage than a couple of sweatshirts.
And Miranda knows just where she can find one.
She slips her hand under her loose sweater and inside the wide Ace bandage wrapped around her torso. No one’s looking her way, so she pulls out the boxes of Clinique mascara and hides them under the pile of sweaters. When she straightens up, she sees that Javier is watching her, but his face doesn’t hold any judgment.
Miranda does the math. If this hadn’t happened, she would be on her way to Matthew now. If this hadn’t happened, soon she would be handing over everything she stole in the past few days. Soon she would be feeling so much better. Or rather, she wouldn’t be feeling anything at all. Instead, now she’s in withdrawal. Shivering, she swipes at her nose with the back of her hand.
“Don’t cry.” Javier’s the one with a bullet wound, but he’s trying to console her.
“I’m not.” Miranda’s eyes are wet, but she’s telling the truth. She tugs the Ace bandage free.
Suddenly, Grace raises her phone to her ear. Her face changes. “Daddy!”
Even as everyone signals her to keep her voice down, they all lean forward to listen.
Then the light in Grace’s eyes dims and the joy leaves her voice. “Oh. Okay. Daddy, if you hear this message, first of all, I want you to know that I love you. Okay? I love you very much. I’m at Fairgate Mall in Portland. Oh, Daddy, there’s men with guns and they’re shooting people.” Her voice cracks. “And … and … and Mom’s dead. They killed her.” She swallows. “And now I’m hiding with a bunch of people in a Culpeppers. In the storeroom.” Her whisper is strangled. “And no matter what happens, just know that I love you and Emily so, so much.” She hangs up, puts her hand over her eyes, and starts to cry again.
Cole moves closer and puts his arm around her shoulders. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”
“It’s not your fault,” she chokes out.
Grace’s failure to connect is a fresh reminder of how alone they are. Miranda looks away from her naked pain. She feels so helpless, but maybe there’s still something she can do. “Can one of you guys help me with Javier’s leg? It’s still bleeding.”
Cole gives Grace’s shoulder a squeeze before releasing her and coming over. He leans down. “How’re you feeling, buddy?”
“Okay,” Javier says. His hairline is beaded with sweat. After a pause, he adds, “I mean, it hurts.”
“Try to stay calm.” Cole’s own voice is calm nearly to the point of disinterest. “The more stressed you get, the higher your blood pressure. Which makes you pump out more blood. If we had a field kit, I could dump some coagulants in the wound. But we’ve got nothing.”
Cole sounds so knowledgeable. His hair seems too long, but … “Are you in the army or something?” Miranda asks.
“My brothers were.” His voice falters, and he looks in the direction of the food court, his face contorting.
She doesn’t ask any more. Doesn’t want to know what that past tense means. Or how long it’s been true.
On top of the desk is a sports water bottle. Cole undoes the cap and sniffs. “Water,” he says, handing it to Javier. “Here. Take little sips every minute or two. Drinking is about the only way to replace the blood you’ve lost. But don’t drink too much or too fast or you’ll throw up.”
Miranda holds up the Ace bandage. “Can you help me bandage his leg?”
Cole takes the length of tan elastic from her. “Why do you have this?”
“I hurt my ribs.” Hopefully, Javier won’t say anything about the mascara.
“I thought doctors didn’t strap ribs anymore,” Cole says. “It’s bad for them to be immobile.” When her only answer is a shrug, he turns to Javier. “Let’s take a look at the wound first. Maybe we can pack it with something.”
Cole takes the scissors from the desk and washes them in the bathroom. Returning, he pinches the cloth around the bullet hole on the front of Javier’s thigh and then cuts out a circle. Javier holds himself still, his face shining with sweat.
Cole wipes the blood away with a sweater. The wound, which is toward the outside of his thigh, is not as scary as Miranda feared. About as wide as her pinky, it looks more like a puncture.
“That’s got to be the entrance wound,” Cole says. He spreads a clean sweater next to Javier’s legs and then has him roll onto his belly. On the back, the wound is about the size of a nickel, with ragged edges. Even after Cole wipes it clean, blood wells up steadily. Both Amina and Grace look once, grimace, and then look away.
“You’re super lucky it missed bone.” Cole’s words are cheerful, but his expression, which Javier can’t see, is grim. “And that it went straight through.” He looks at Amina. “Does the store sell anything clean and small I could pack the wound with to try to stop the bleeding?”
Amina scans the shelves. “Maybe we could cut up a scarf?”
Javier props himself on his elbows. “Do you have that thing for girls?”
Miranda and Amina exchange a puzzled glance.
“El tampón?” he ventures.
“He’s right.” Cole’s low voice sparks with excitement. “If we had one, we could use it to plug the bullet wound. It would probably stop the bleeding.”
When neither of the other girls speaks, Miranda says, “Um, I’ve got one.” She opens her purse and gets it out. Not meeting anyone’s eyes, she starts to hand it to Cole.
He shakes his head. “We don’t need another pair of hands touching it. Wash up first, and then, when you open it, only touch the applicator.”
Oh no no no. “Can’t you put it in?” Miranda says.
“We need to minimize the chance of contamination.”
After a long pause, Miranda goes to wash her hands. For a few seconds, Javier’s blood turns the water pink as it runs off her fingers. After it runs clear, she washes the ridiculous-looking makeup, now tear-streaked and smeared, from her face. She turns the water to cold and drinks it from her cupped hands.
In the mirror, her eyes look back at her from someone else’s head. Who is this girl with dark circles under her eyes and blood smeared on her clothes?
Breaking her own gaze, Miranda turns the water to hot and scrubs her hands with soap. She waves her hand to get a paper towel, then carefully dries. Back out in the main part of the storeroom, she gets down on her knees and opens the wrapper.
“Just put it in slowly,” Cole advises. To Javier he says, “Try to take deep breaths.”
It’s easier than she thought it would be to slide the plastic applicator into the exit hole. When it’s about halfway in, Javier groans softly, and Miranda freezes. But Cole nods at her to keep going. Swallowing back nausea, she does, until only the string is showing, then pulls back the applicator.
Using the scissors, Cole cuts a flannel shirt into squares. Miranda and Amina help hold them in place while he binds them with Miranda’s Ace bandage, which has a built-in Velcro edge. Grace does nothing more than watch, but at least she’s no longer keening and muttering.
Javier rolls onto his back. “Thank you,” he says softly. “Thank you, Cole and Miranda, Amina and Grace.” He nods at each of them in turn.
Miranda has to look away. Will the things they did really matter? Or will Javier and everyone else end up just as dead as if they hadn’t done anything?