She scoots back, making room within the rack, and after a moment of deliberation, he slides into the space after her. There’s no point in staying out in the open, not with the mannequins roaming about; if she’s offering him sanctuary, he’d be a fool not to accept.

It is a tight fit, part of the metal rack pressing against his back as he pulls his knees to his chin so that he doesn’t brush up against her. She’s holding a knife, and something about the way she’s gripping it makes him think that she won’t hesitate to use it. Better not to antagonize her, then.

“I think they’ll manage to kill us regardless,” he says wearily. “We can only hide for so long, and then…” Well. Better not to think of it.

Abruptly, he asks, “do you pray?”