The busboy sits on the floor, his back against the counter. His eyes are closed, his face taut with pain. He’s pressing his palms on the front and back of his thigh, over the places where the bullet came and went. Miranda squints to read the name tag on his green apron. JAVIER.

Javier opens his dark eyes and looks at her. Despite his efforts, blood is already puddling on the white linoleum.

“We should try to stop that bleeding,” Miranda says to no one and everyone. Grabbing two acid-yellow sweatshirts from a stack, she scuttles forward on hands and knees.

Javier shifts his hands so she can sandwich his leg between the two sweatshirts. Then she ties the arms of the bottom sweatshirt over the top one.

“Thank you.” His bloody fingers squeeze her palm. His eyes are so dark, they don’t seem to have pupils.

Amina is staring at Miranda. Her eyes narrow. “Wait—it’s you!” Her tone is almost indignant. A month ago, Amina caught her walking out of the store with a foil-lined Culpeppers shopping bag filled with stolen cashmere sweaters. As a result, Miranda has been banned from the store.

People are out there dying, and this girl is still thinking about the rules. Miranda starts to laugh. She can’t help it. The sound flirts with hysteria. It’s too loud. What if someone out there, one of the men with guns, hears her over the fire alarm?

Putting her hand over her mouth, she tries to stifle herself. She can taste Javier’s blood, metallic and salty. She wants to throw up. She wants to scream, she wants to cry. She wants to be anyplace but here.

When Miranda finally speaks, she manages to keep her voice to a half whisper. “What are you going to do, make me go back out there again?”

“No,” Amina says. “Of course not.” She looks away, her mouth twisting.

Miranda looks away too. The rich girl is lost in her own world. She locks her fingers in her hair as she mutters, “Oh my God, Mom, please, no, no, no. Don’t be dead, Mom. You can’t be dead!”

The guy who urged Miranda to roll under the shutter steps closer. “Wait—was that your mom who got shot first?”

The wailing pauses, and the girl’s eyes flash to him. Her expression is a wordless answer.

“I am so sorry,” the guy says, wincing in sympathy. His eyes are light gray. “That’s awful.”

The girl chokes out, “But what if she’s not dead? What if she’s just hurt? I should go back out there.”

“Look—” Javier begins, then interrupts himself. “What’s your name?”

“Grace.” Her eyes dart back and forth between him and the security shutter.

“Trust me, Grace. She’s dead.” His voice is as flat as his words, with only a trace of an accent. “Your mama is dead.”

“How can you know that?”