They'd figured out that he'd taken the stairs.

Sam could hear their calls and stampeding feet from somewhere above him. It fueled him to move faster, which was a near impossible task with the way his legs had morphed into aching noodles and his lungs had shriveled into prunes. By now, he was sweating so badly that the paper towel had turned into a damp paper mache and clung to his hips in soggy chunks. His toilet paper mask had fallen away, revealing a blotchy, gasping face.

He grasped onto the handrail with both hands, stumbling down one step at a time. If it weren't for his precarious hold on the rail, he would have slumped into a puddle and rolled his way down to the next landing.

"Just give it up," Jeffrey hollered down. His voice echoed down the stairwell, sounding as breathless as Sam's. "The police are on their way!"

"Urghgh," Sam moaned. Things were getting worse. He didn't want to go to jail! He trudged down a few more steps and made it to the next landing. He looked up at the number stenciled neatly on the wall: 77

Tears welled in his eyes. There was an awful long way to go. He didn't think he was going to make it.

His phone rang. The merry ding-a-ling thundered up the stairway, loud enough for everyone to hear it. But Sam didn't care. His grandmother hadn't abandoned him after all!

He answered the phone, crying out in relieved joy, "Gran!"

But the voice who answered did not possess the familiar smoky rasp of his grandmother.

"Samwell," came the icy tones of Mr. Eric Cole, his boss. "You are late."

The blood froze in Sam's veins. What? What was this? His boss? Not Gran? It took him a moment to process this, during which an ocean of horror rose ‌all around him. He started to sink into its depths.

"H-hello?" He whispered into the phone. His hand was shaking, so he braced it with the other. The phone still shook, though he managed to keep it from sliding out of his clammy grasp.

"I told you," said Mr. Eric Cole. He sounded grouchy, like he hadn't had his three cups of morning coffee yet. "Three strikes and you're out. This is strike three. Don't bother coming back to the office."

Click.

Sam listened to the empty silence. It was somehow louder than the entire racket coming from upstairs.

Had he just been fired?

No. Oh no, no, no. That had to have been a mistake. Maybe his boss was just playing a cruel trick, and he'd call back after his coffee and tell Sam it was all a joke. Please, just let this all be a joke. Or a nightmare. Sam was okay with that option. If he could wake up now, that would be great.

"I see him!"

The cry startled Sam, and he almost dropped his phone. He craned his head back to see someone leaning over the railing two stories above. The expression on the unfamiliar man's face contorted, like he'd just smelled something awful. Or seen something strange.

"What the-?!"

Terror yanked Sam into action. He flung himself down the stairs two steps at a time. It never occurred to him that it was pointless - he'd already lost his job - yet the urge to escape grew even stronger now.

Bits of damp paper towel broke apart with every step, falling in his wake like a scattering of breadcrumbs. He wheezed, face beet-red, eyes watering; never in his entire life had he felt so miserable. 

Yet adrenaline lent him the strength to keep going. One flight after the next flew by, and gradually, the cries of his pursuers faded into the distance. Or maybe it was the blood pounding in his ears that drowned them out. It felt like his heart was about to explode.

Sam didn't slow down. He kept going until he ran out of stairs. The last landing had a door, so he grabbed the handle, flung it open, and staggered through.

Damp pavement met his bare feet. It was cold, causing him to falter. He looked around, gasping for air, and found himself in a half-empty underground parkade.

The nearest light bulb was burnt out, and the one next in line flickered weakly like it was moments away from death. Shadows pooled in places, looking exactly like the type of environment that serial killers found inviting. On the far side of this level were the ramps that led to the levels above and below, but it was hard to see them past the flashing red and blue lights.

"Cops?" Sam gulped. There were two cars, parked bumper to bumper in front of the ramps. It was impossible to go deeper into the parkade without going past them.

The door slammed behind him, the resulting bang ricocheting through the air like a gunshot. Sam jumped. And down by the cop cars, a couple of uniformed figures appeared.

Sam bolted. He didn't really have a plan. All he knew was that there was no way he was going up the stairs again. Nor was he going to run to the cops. Only an idiot would do that. So he ran to the side, right past a parked sedan. There was a low wall at the edge of this level, so he grabbed it and hoisted himself over it.

There was light coming from below, which made it the most welcoming location to flee to. However, Sam very soon realized an important detail.

This wasn't the lowest level of the parkade.

He plummeted, arms flailing, too shocked to even yell. Squeezing his eyes shut, he prepared for-

Thump!

He slammed into something hard enough to punch the breath out of him. But it didn't hurt. Not exactly.

His eyes flew open. Of all things, he'd landed on a shopping car filled with black garbage bags. Their contents were soft, so they'd broken his fall quite well. Sam sat in stunned silence, his legs dangling over the cart's handlebar. He was also quite naked, with only a few pieces of wet paper clinging to his skin.

"Oh my!" The face of a cackling woman appeared over his knees. 

And boy, was she a vision. The laugh lines and crows' feet were so pronounced that she looked to be nearly two hundred years old. She wore an oversized winter parka even though spring had come and gone a month ago, and a dirty gray scarf wrapped around her head and neck. A few strands of gray hair stuck out like steel wire.

"I've seen it rain frogs before," she gleefully informed him. Then she leaned in, so close that he could smell the cigarette smoke on her breath. It reminded him a lot of his grandmother. "But this here? This be the first time I seen it rain men. Where were you forty years ago? Hehe!"

She drew back, chortled, and then set to pulling off her coat. Sam lifted himself up onto his elbows, about to get up, but the sound of voices overhead made him freeze. The cops!

"The crazy bastard jumped," the one sounded like he couldn't believe it.

His buddy sighed heavily. "You sure? I didn't see anything."

"I saw movement. What else could it have been? Hardly anyone comes down here this time of morning."

Sam's eyes grew wide. He looked up the concrete wall to the ledge he'd jumped from. They were going to look over any minute now, and they'd find him and drag him off to jail. Would they even let him phone his grandmother to let her know he'd been arrested?

"Gran's going to be mad," he whispered. He rubbed at his eyes, then remembered he was naked. He hastily covered his precious bits both hands, one of which still clutched his phone. A deep flush crept over his face and neck.

"Hehehe." The old woman draped her coat over him. His world went dark. His first instinct was to push it off, because it smelled like the worst fungus-invested socks he'd ever experienced, but she placed a hand on his jacket-covered chest and shoved him down.

"Nah ah, boyo. Just sit tight and let this ole mama look after you." With that, she grasped the handlebars, her arms bumping against his legs, and she began to push the cart alongside the wall. The noise of the wheels squeaking made Sam cringe.

The cops had to have heard that. And he was proven right when he heard them call out.

"Who's there?!"

"It's just a bag lady with a shopping cart," the other one muttered, but he hadn't bothered lowering his voice. Both Sam and the old woman heard it.

The latter cackled, but she didn't stop pushing the cart. Beneath the coat, Sam began to sweat buckets. He couldn't see anything, but he could certainly smell, er hear, what was going on.

"Hey! Old woman! Did you see anyone come through here?"

The cart jerked to a stop. Sam grabbed the sides tightly, heart leaping into his throat. What was going on? What was she going to do?

"Old woman?!" His rescuer shrilled, fury in every syllable. "You come down here and tell me that to my face, you ingrate! Learn some respect for your elders!"

"Look, lady. I just asked-"

"Ooh, a lady is it now? Do I look like a lady to you? Just a minute, let this mama fluff her hair all pretty for you." Something rustled, and then one of the cops yelped.

"Ow! She threw her shoe at me!"

His partner let out a bark of laughter, before quickly smothering it. "Just leave her alone. There's nothing here."

"I'm sure I saw someone though!"

"Take a look - do you see anyone now? There's no way they could've gone anywhere that quick. And there's nowhere to hide down there. See?"

Sam held his breath and prayed the parka would be enough to hide him. After a moment of silence, the cart jerked as the crazy bag lady began to push it again. The squeaky wheel sounded unbearably loud, causing Sam to cringe.

"I gave up my shoe for this," the old woman muttered, though she didn't sound very upset about it. Sam wondered if she was senile, like how his grandmother called her friends when they came over for coffee every Sunday morning. She called them foolish and senile to their faces, and they called her a vicious old bag. They all tittered over that, like it was the funniest thing ever, and then they broke out the alcohol and shoed Sam out of the house.

When he asked why, his grandmother just said, "Look. When it comes to women, there's things you don't need to know, and there's things you don't want to know. And in this case, it's both. So get out of my house and don't come back until morning."

He thought of that now. His grandmother, as always, was a very smart person. Between the girl in the elevator and the crazy bag lady, he was starting to understand that yes, there was a lot about women that he didn't know. Or want to know.

He shivered beneath the parka. "Can I get up now? Please?"

Instead of answering, the bag lady let out a shrill cackle. The wheels hit a pothole, making the whole cart jerk. Sam's head knocked against the back of the cart. He hissed, and received a comforting pat on his knee.

His leg jerked and he sucked in a breath. It was very kind of this person to rescue him, and he would be sure to thank her, but now he was worried as to what she meant to do with him.

Under the parka, he hastily dialed his grandmother's phone number. It went straight to her voicemail. It was a message he'd heard before, but still he pressed his phone to his ear and listened like it was the last thing he'd get to hear on earth.

"Figure it out, Sam. You're a big boy now. If you're not Sam, then leave a message. If you are Sam, then go away."

The beep came. After a moment of silence, Sam ended the call. His stomach twisted, and he felt a lump form in his throat.

Just how was he supposed to figure this out?