The shrieks were earsplitting. As parents yanked their children to the tile and wrapped them tight, I lay on the ground with palms pressed over my ears. We were supposed to pretend to be regular customers—dumb, horrified—and this was no stretch for me. I might have been screaming myself.

A woman behind me whispered, "Why is this happening?"

I glanced back. A jar of pickles had shattered, its juices running into the pants of her young son.

"Don't move," she told him. "You'll roll into the glass!"

I crawled closer and picked up jagged chunks of glass from the briny pools. "Let's stay down. Probably it'll be over soon."

But the boy kept squirming. The woman smothered him with both arms, which he only squirmed more against, both of them sobbing and sniveling.

I took the boy's fingers and raised them into our shared sightline. I looked directly at him with the stillest expression I could manage, my hands caressing but firm—a calming mechanism that had worked with Karen. (Thought not often with Zach.)

The woman repeated, "Why is this happening?"

In my periphery, I saw Piper look our way. Her lips were tight. Was she fighting regret? Peeved at Josiah going off script?

I wished Durwood would rush in and take Josiah, end this helter skelter. The plan had been to stop Josiah before he could hurt anybody, but he'd acted too quickly.

Up on the podium, Josiah gripped the microphone. "Are we all feeling the savings now? Who's ready to reconsider their life? To think deeply about the impact their choices have on the rest of humanity?"

Four security guards converged on the podium, their steps hunched and deliberate. Shoppers watched their blue and yellow forms advancing from the floor with a measure of hope.

Josiah's red eyes found Piper in the crowd. She gave a subtle nod.

He reached into his cargo shorts, and a twitch in his sinewy forearm betrayed a tap on his remote.

Low, brittle noises began. The guards spasmed and clutched their sides where tasers were attached to their belts.

"That's a warning zap." Josiah pivoted, wide-eyed, addressing them all. "We can go hotter, baby! We can go a whole lot hotter."

The security guards stood or knelt in place.

The man who'd lost his ear had recovered to his feet. Stopping the bloody side of his head with his vest, he now staggered toward Josiah. He was broad-shouldered, possibly a college athlete. A patch on his vest read Pasternacky.

"You're the despicable one," he grunted, rushing the leader of the Mice, managing to knock him down.

Josiah bared his teeth in a hyena's grin and hurled himself at the man. As they grappled, I wished Pasternacky would go for Josiah's remote, but he seemed unaware of it.

They fought for a minute before Hatch, with what might have been a reluctant air, stepped in to subdue Pasternacky.

"DO NOT," Josiah screamed, "MESS WITH ME!"

His white hair whipping about, he scanned the floor around him. He spun several times in search of...what? The only thing he found was the severed ear, which he snatched up and held close to his mouth.

"Do not mess with me!" he repeated, and when nobody reacted—the ear didn't project his voice through the PA system—bit hard into the ear.

He shook his head like a dog battling a chew toy until he managed to gnawed off the earlobe, which he then spat toward a group huddling by the bullet juicers.

Pasternacky started for Josiah again, but Hatch held him back. The concealer had rubbed off one side of Hatch's face, green tattoos visible again. In his deflated expression, I read more reluctance.

Piper showed similar signs, laying not far from me with head low.

They had followed Josiah this far, through unrest, into Anarchy, tolerating dubious twists of logic and hints of sadism from their enigmatic leader.

He'd been the spark, but the spark had dimmed.

"Playing with mom's knives again, little Joey?" boomed a voice from the next aisle. "We really need to get you into an art class."

It took Josiah a moment to realize he was being heckled. He looked around, wiping his mouth, smearing blood across one cheek, before finding Quaid.

"Hey, what—" His eyes moved quizzically to Hatch and Piper. "You're that janitor. The fricking janitor from Pittsburgh."

Quaid kept approaching. "I get around."

Josiah scowled. "Something's cranked, you shouldn't be here. I'll give you one chance. One chance to jet."

"Thanks." Quaid stopped and crossed his arms. With one thumb, he smoothed the breast of his sportcoat.

Another Shop-All employee rose now and took a step toward the podium. Several people took out cell phones and began recording video.

Josiah seemed to realize the effect of Quaid's words. "Everyone back, back! I have no desire to punish pawns." He lurched toward a young family. "But I will. Janitor dude, I will—if you don't take off now!"

"You're over," Quaid said, his tone sober. "History will judge you however it's going to judge you, but for my money, you should stop. Cut your body of work off right here."

In the space between the two men, I perceived a disturbance. Not movement exactly, more like energy. Like gasoline rippled the air behind a jet engine.

I lost it, then squinted and got it back. Then lost it. Then thought I got it again, but maybe those ultra high-definition televisions in the background were confusing me.

Meanwhile Quaid was keeping Josiah talking.

"...because I'll tell you quite honestly, I enjoy greeters," said the former politician. "I do. Are they helpful? Do they add tangibly to the shopping experience? No. But their presence is comforting, just the knowledge that geriatrics remain active in society..."

Now I definitely saw the presence. Quaid saw it too—while his mouth motored on, his gaze moved ever so slightly that way. The presence moved closer to Josiah, flowing from cover to cover, behind a pillar, around a six-foot cardboard Mr. Peanut, between two racks of slippers. It was work fixing it in my field of vision—tiny imperfections of color, a stray shadow where it shouldn't be.

A few in the crowd noticed. The woman by the shattered pickle jar peeked through cupped hands. Hatch seemed to sense a threat but didn't know how to respond, still holding Pasternacky, taking a choppy step nearer, then back.

Josiah cut through Quaid's rambling about greeters, "All of you need to back up, or this goes next level—I'm serious!"

He spun about 540 degrees around, scanning the frightened onlookers—looking himself like a spooked squirrel. His eyes settled on a gangly tween wearing her hair in a single plait.

"Everybody gives me space—now—or Sarah Plain and Tall pays the price!"

Quaid raised a finger for calm. "History. Think this one forward."

The presence—which could only be Durwood—had maneuvered to within five feet of Josiah. As Josiah lunged for the tween's arm, yanking her up the podium, the presence closed the gap further.

Piper called, "Jo! Watch out from beh—"

Before she could finish her warning, I scrambled around in front of her. "It's okay!" I whispered. "Those guys are with me."

I was kneeling before her on the hard Shop-All tile. Piper was lying on her tummy, her face gone blank. The whites of her eyes were perfect jails around each dark pupil.

I was still facing Piper when a gasp ripped through the crowd. We both turned.

Josiah's knife was raised in the start of a slashing motion, but it wasn't going anywhere. He strained and grunted and violently threw his hips, but the knife stayed up.

After several seconds of animal exertion, he realized he was being restrained and flailed backward with his free arm. He whipped about at random. One blow caught the presence, ripping the material of its suit.

Durwood's right arm and half his face were exposed.

Josiah fought furiously, but even with the ex-Marine half occupied getting free of his camouflage material—or skin, or suit, whatever—it was over quickly. Durwood ducked Josiah's livid, looping stabs easily. He sidestepped a spinning sunglasses display and foam from a fire extinguisher—Josiah hurled anything and everything within reach.

With Shop-All employees and customers rising cautiously, Durwood countered with short, efficient blows. I imagined him trying to catch a pesky colt's reins.

Finally, Durwood had gained Josiah's knife and detained him in a stiff half-nelson. The girl with the single plait of hair was rubbing her upper arm, crying with her family.

Pasternacky recovered his ear from the floor. Burning from the food court had abated to a singed smell.

Josiah bucked against the steady pressure from Durwood's forearm. "Get him off! We are the righteous—we are not defeated, we can't be stopped!"

His eyes zipped about for help, but none of the Mice seemed to want any of Durwood Oak Jones. They either kept cover in the crowd or were scampering for the exits.

Even Hatch, who stood closest, now released Pasternacky with a listless shrug. Pasternacky recovered his ear from the floor.

"We are beset by the foes of progress," Josiah railed, "but the side of good shall not—"

"Enough."

Durwood applied a jolt of pressure, forcing Josiah's head down. He snarled and seemed on the verge of more—could a neck snap like that?—when Quaid stepped in.

"Let's move, partner," he said. "Quicker we go, the fewer the witnesses—and the less chance this gets back to you-know-who."

With an intense blink, Durwood came back to himself. He bound Josiah's wrists with plastic zipties.

Hatch said, "You aren't police?"

"No, sir," Quaid said. "What we are is your best possible outcome."

Hatch didn't seem to believe Quaid, but neither did he seem eager to take his turn with Durwood.

He raised his green-inked hands in surrender.

Quaid exhaled at length, then found me and Piper in the crowd. "Okay, you too, tell us: who's important enough to take?"

Piper glared at me. Rushing from the 3D printers aisle, Garrison gaped open-mouthed, a strand of hair whirling up from his part like a fishhook.

My long nightmare embedded with the Mice was over—so why was I dreading what came next?