Raskolnikov has spent the last there hours hidden in the men’s jackets, away from all of the living mannequins and flying boomerangs and related mayhem. He certainly wasn’t going to stay there forever — buying time to come up with a plan, he’d told himself, even though he’d spent far more time trying to not think about the mannequins hunting him down than he had thinking about a scheme that would let him defeat them. But slowly, his need for water is taking over his desire to remain hidden.

He waits until he can’t hear any of the light, tapping footsteps that signal a mannequin is nearby, and then creeps out from between the jackets and down an isle. Maybe one of the latrines — bathrooms, the Americans call them, despite the fact that they don’t bathe within them — will have a sink he can drink from. He’s passing the racks of pants in various shades of khaki when he hears a voice, and nearly jumps out of his skin.

Turning quickly to the side, he sees a woman’s face looking at him from between a particularly bland rack of dress slacks.

“What on earth,” he starts, keeping his voice down; he isn’t sure if the mannequins can hear him, but that’s a risk he doesn’t want to take, “are you doing?”