Amy whispered a monologue as they stumbled forward. She hoped the sound of her voice—a human voice—would be a comfort to Trinity. “Once we’re down the escalator, we can use the manual release and open the front doors and then we’ll be outside in the parking lot. We’ll call for help and send people back here. Lots of people. You’re going to be okay. Everyone’s going to be okay. We just have to get out of here.”

They arrived at the top of the escalator. Downstairs, a toxic orange glow flooded through the windows lining the front of the store. To Amy’s light-starved eyes, it felt as bright as day.

Then Basil’s phone rang.

She froze while the theme from Doctor Who played way too loudly.

Amy fumbled for the button and answered. “Hello?”

“Where’ve you been?”

“Matt?” she whispered. “Where are you?”

“I’m all turned around,” Matt said. “I think I’m in Storage Solutions. I’m standing next to a Smagma.”

“I’m by the escalator in Living Rooms,” Amy said, feeling giddy. Matt was an extra person. Matt could help with Trinity. “You know how to get here?”

“I’m going after Trinity,” he said.

“I’ve already got her,” Amy said. “She’s right here.”

“I just saw her through the shortcut. She’s heading for Wardrobes—”

“No, Matt, I’ve got her,” Amy said. “She’s standing right next to me.”

“I can’t leave her in here alone.”

Amy stuck the phone in Trinity’s face. “Talk to him. Say something.”

But Trinity stood still, unable to speak. Amy slapped the phone back to her ear.

“I can’t leave her,” Matt said.

“It’s a trick,” Amy said. “This place is tricking you.”

“I’ll call you right back. I’m going after her.”

The line went dead. Amy tried to call his number back, but it rang and rang and then went to voicemail. She looked up to see Trinity staring at her.

“This is what it does. It tricks us,” Amy said. Trinity didn’t seem to hear. “We have to keep moving.”

As she tried to figure out how to get Trinity down the frozen escalator, Amy’s eye caught the row of ten headshots showing Orsk senior management, all lined up along the wall in identical black frames. Only now the ten images depicted “Josiah Worth, Warden.” In the first picture, his eyes were scratched out. Next was one with his entire face slashed to ribbons, the glass in the frame shattered. Next to that was one with a water stain that had eaten away the image, leaving a white shapeless blur on his shoulders. And so it continued down the line, each photo just another mutilated version of Josiah’s grinning face: eyeless, his mouth carved away to a black void, scratched with needles, charred, burned with acid.