Next to the kiosk they took the staircase down, passed by the smelly bathrooms and then by the closed office that served as a makeshift church on Saturdays. Alvin liked going to church. He liked the songs, liked the cookies they handed out at the end of the sermon, liked ogling the girl-with-the-headband who always sat in the front row. He never talked to her but always stared, averting his gaze only when their eyes met. He and his mother stopped visiting the church after Prudence knocked over her chair and screamed at the priest that even God himself knew better than to tell her how to raise her child. He liked remembering how his mother picked him up in her arms and everyone stared at them. Even the girl-with-the-headband. Alvin couldn’t hide his smile.

They reached the end of the third floor, which was empty. They stopped in front of the wide corridor leading downstairs.

“There’s only homeless people and drugs down there,” said a cleaner with a neon orange vest and black kippah who popped up behind them. He looked at Alvin’s box and announced, “That needs a bigger cage, tzaddik.”

Alvin wanted to ask the man whether she was a rabbit or a hamster, but his mother had already begun pulling him away. They started back toward the stall and waited for the cleaner to disappear before returning to the wide corridor. They rushed down the staircase, clutching the gray handrail. A pale fluorescent light illuminated the abandoned shops. The sour smell of urine became more pungent as they descended. When they passed by a poster of a bare-breasted woman, Prudence rushed to cover Alvin’s eyes, although he continued to peek through the slits between her fingers. The large silhouettes of passengers from the floors above danced on the tiles. Alvin tried to dodge them, fearing that if he stepped on one of the silhouettes, he’d make someone upstairs trip.