He made it three steps toward the parking structure before his body staged a rebellion. Theo hesitated by the edge of the mezzanine, the crowd folding and refolding in front of him like code caught in a recursive loop. Somewhere out there, the girl—Kristy, she’d said—was probably gone, or on her way to becoming gone, and he could leave it at that. Easy. Efficient. But a second later, he caught a flash of navy hood at the base of the escalator, trailing behind a phalanx of teens all filming themselves on a cluster of phones.

  He felt his pulse jump, which was ridiculous, then watched her shadow the teens for a minute before she peeled away, heading not for an exit but for the glass-walled atrium overlooking the valet ramp. Theo read the movement as intentional, not lost—someone who didn’t want to be found, or maybe someone waiting to see if the universe would send a second collision.

  He debated for the span of one, two, three measured breaths, then slipped into the current. His sneakers squeaked on the polished tile as he caught up, trying not to telegraph urgency. He found her stationed beside a planter of fake succulents, perched halfway on the rim with her hands jammed in the hoodie pocket. Her sunglasses were still fixed in place, but he caught the tilt of her head when she heard him approach.

  “You made it out alive,” she said, voice so dry he almost missed the humor in it.

  “Barely,” he replied. “I think the Apple Store is blockading the mezzanine. We may have to tunnel out.”

  She snorted, a tiny flare of amusement, then dropped her gaze to the mall’s main level below. He followed her line of sight, saw nothing but the same loops of mallgoers orbiting between food court, anchor stores, and whatever retail hell awaited them on the next floor. He watched her fidget, drawing the hoodie sleeves over her hands until only the painted tips of her nails showed.

  He cleared his throat. “Hey, um. If you need someone to walk you out—” The offer came out more formal than he intended, so he tried to soften it. “Not in a creepy way. You just seemed like you were avoiding someone. Or something.”

  Kristy didn’t answer right away. The mall’s soundscape pulsed up around them: the drone of a hundred conversations, some kid’s shriek, and the metallic clang of a service cart. She rolled her lips together and, behind the sunglasses, he guessed she was weighing the risk of accepting anything from a stranger. After a beat, she shrugged, the movement tight and reluctant.

  “Yeah, okay,” she said, almost to herself. “Not gonna turn down an escort. It’s ride share, down by the West Garage.”

  “Cool,” he said, and wondered if he’d ever sounded less cool in his life. He motioned toward the escalator. “After you?”

  They fell in beside each other, navigating the tide of shoppers with small, purposeful steps. At first, Kristy kept her body at a cautious angle, as if ready to bolt if necessary. Theo matched her pace, keeping a respectful distance, but he caught himself cataloguing every move she made: the way she angled her shoulder to block a passing stroller, how she scanned each storefront before they passed it, how her lips pressed thin whenever they skirted groups of teenagers or clusters of security cameras.

  “Sorry about the sunglasses,” she said after a minute, voice pitched low. “Light’s murder today.”

  He almost believed her, but then she added, “And also it’s easier to hide from the world when it can’t look you in the eye.”

  “Mall’s a good place for that,” he offered. “You blend right in, unless you’re on a Segway.”

  She made a noise, part laugh, part sigh. “That’s the idea. I used to love malls as a kid. Now they just feel like airports, but without the hope of getting anywhere good at the end.”

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  He liked the line, and told her so. “You should write that down. That’s, like, top-tier mall philosophy.”

  Kristy slid a quick glance his direction, though the sunglasses obscured her eyes. “What would you know about top-tier philosophy?”

  Theo grinned. “Majored in it for two semesters. Then I switched to engineering when I realized most philosophers end up writing copy for microbrew labels.”

  This drew a sharper laugh. “And engineers become…” she prompted.

  “Guys who buy too many blue shirts and shop for hoodies on weekends?” He held up his bag for emphasis.

  She actually smiled, though she tried to hide it. “Tragic.”

  They reached the base of the escalator, where the food court’s din swelled to an overwhelming roar. Kristy tensed as they threaded through the thickest part of the crowd, and Theo noticed she made herself smaller, hunching in on herself to slip between people. It was a defense mechanism, but he also caught the practiced efficiency in it—like someone who knew exactly how to avoid both recognition and confrontation.

  He followed her lead, and they navigated the mass without further incident. On the other side, the corridor thinned out, sunlight slanting through the glass ceiling and striping the floor with pale gold. Kristy exhaled, shoulders unclenching by a few degrees.

  They walked in companionable silence for a bit, their footsteps echoing against the tile. When they reached a wide-open atrium, Theo took a chance.

  “So,” he said, “you’re not gonna tell me who you’re hiding from, are you?”

  Kristy shrugged again, but this time it was looser. “Just a thing,” she said. “Some days the world gets a little too…observant.”

  Theo nodded, understanding more than he expected to. “I get that. I once hid in a janitor’s closet for two hours during a high school field trip.”

  “Why?”

  He considered lying, but decided against it. “Stage fright. They wanted me to do a monologue from Hamlet in front of the entire county. I locked myself in with a mop and waited it out.”

  Kristy barked a laugh, the sound ricocheting off the atrium glass. “Did it work?”

  “No. The janitor found me, dragged me back, and I bombed in front of seven hundred people.” He grinned. “But on the bright side, I learned what ammonia smells like.”

  She shook her head, smiling for real now. “You’re weird. I like it.”

  “Thanks. I aim for at least eighty percent functional, twenty percent weird.”

  She started to respond, but something caught her attention up ahead—a pair of teenage girls in matching Uggs, clearly scanning the crowd for someone. Kristy ducked her head, pulling the hood lower, and angled off toward a side passage. Theo followed without comment.

  When they were clear, she let out a breath. “You ever get that feeling like you’re in two places at once?”

  “Like, mentally?”

  She shook her head. “No, like…your body’s here, but your brain is already two exits down, mapping the escape route. I don’t know. Never mind.”

  He thought about it. “Maybe everyone feels that way in malls. It’s, like, an evolutionary defense mechanism.”

  Kristy grinned, just a flash. “Is that what they teach in engineering? How to survive food courts and bad lighting?”

  “Mostly. That, and how to assemble IKEA furniture without crying.”

  She laughed again, then stopped suddenly by a vending alcove. “Hey,” she said, pausing. “Thanks. For, you know, walking me out. It’s less weird with company.”

  Theo shrugged, trying not to show how much it meant. “I’m a big believer in walk-and-talk therapy.”

  They moved on, the parking garage coming into view through the next set of automatic doors. Outside, the light was blinding, heat shimmer rising off the concrete like a signal flare. Kristy squinted even behind the sunglasses, then turned to him, one hand on the hoodie zipper.

  “So,” she said, “is this where you ask for my number, or are we pretending this never happened?”

  Theo almost choked. “I, uh—only if you want. No pressure. Could be a totally normal, no-strings-attached mall friendship.”

  Kristy made a face. “Those don’t exist. But I’ll take a raincheck on the number thing.” She grinned. “If you ever need another hoodie model, I work weekends.”

  He laughed, feeling something inside him click into place. “Deal.”

  She started to move toward the curb, then stopped and turned back. “Hey, Theo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You have something on your sleeve.” She reached out and flicked the edge of the still-damp coffee stain, leaving a fingerprint in the shape of a tiny, perfect crescent.

  He glanced down at it, then back at her. “New look. I’m starting a trend.”

  She shook her head, mock-disgusted, then, on impulse, punched his arm—a light, sharp jab that stung more in memory than sensation. “You’re ridiculous.”

  He grinned, rubbing the spot. “You hit like a linebacker.”

  “I get that a lot,” she said.