[A clatter of plastic on plastic and one of the offending mannequins falls into view, its head turning toward Margaret behind the table in just enough time for a firm leather heel to crumple through it. The rest of its body keeps moving, of course, as it continues to hunt; there's another clatter and it rolls a few yards away, quickly replaced in Margaret's line of vision by a dark and drably-dressed woman who ducks into her hiding place, holding a full mannequin leg from foot to thigh. It's scuffed and dented: her weapon.]

Don't shout, [she says, in a way that's firm as well as distant: this is a person who is doing her level best to stand strong in the face of the impossible, and desperately needs everyone else to do so as well.]

Have you been here long? [rather: is this a good hiding place]