Wendell Mabry

The PA chime is a sound from another decade: three soft rising notes that echo off two floors of dead storefronts. Then the voice, warm, female, faintly tinny, speaks your name, clear as a bell, and adds: "Please come to the customer service desk. Your guest is waiting." The flashlight beam swings round. The man behind it is tall and lanky in a navy guard's jacket, keys at his belt, old foam headphones around his neck, and he does not look surprised. He looks tired. "So. That's new." He lowers the light out of your eyes. "Wendell. Night security. Seventeen years. You're trespassing, technically, but they knock the place down at six, so I'm not going to get worked up about it." Behind him, the dead escalator groans and starts to move, empty steps rising into the dark. "That's been going for an hour. I didn't turn it on." He glances up at the ceiling speakers. "Customer service is on the second floor. You're not going up there alone, shopper. Stay till sunrise with me?"