On the other side of that door was a long gray hallway. Stockroom shelves. Fluorescent lights.
A security officer stood at the far end.
“Keep moving, folks,” he said. “Emergency exit’s open. Straight out.”
Behind us, there was a loud crash. Then shouting.
I flinched.
Mom kept rolling.
Keisha held the heavy steel exit door open for us while we went down a short concrete ramp into the loading dock area behind the store.
Outside, employees in red Macy’s vests were guiding customers behind a tall concrete wall. Away from the building.
Somebody was calling for an ambulance for the woman who’d fainted.
Mom rolled to a stop beside a loading bay.
I crouched down in front of her.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Your shoulder? When the chair hit that table?”
“I’m all right, Julia.”
“Are you sure? Mom, are you sure?”
She looked at me for a long moment.
“Darling,” she said. “I’m frightened. That doesn’t mean I’m broken.”
I looked down at the concrete.
A police siren started up nearby. Then another one. Then a third.
A Columbus police officer jogged over and told our group to stay right there behind the wall while they secured the entrance.
So we waited.
I kept checking Mom’s face.
She kept checking mine.
After a while, she reached out and took my hand.
Her hand was warm. Alive.
I held it way too tight.
She squeezed once. Gently.
“Julia,” she said. “You’re hurting my fingers.”
I loosened my grip.
“Sorry.”
“I know, honey,” she said.
Adrian Hawthorne is a celebrated author and dedicated archivist who finds inspiration in the hidden stories of the past. Educated at Oxford, he now works at the National Archives, where preserving history fuels his evocative writing. Balancing archival precision with creative storytelling, Adrian founded the Hawthorne Institute of Literary Arts to mentor emerging writers and honor the timeless art of narrative.