The delivery truck in the loading area is parked with its front facing inward, rear doors tightly shut. The locking bar is fully inserted with the padlock still hanging on it, never opened.

What you thinkThe area around the lock is densely covered with pry marks, new ones overlapping the old, with the deepest gouge curling up the sheet metal—yet the door remains unopened. A crowbar lies discarded beside the rear wheel, one end already bent from the effort. Footprints on the ground stretch from the back of the vehicle all the way to the rolling door, but only in one direction—going there.

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A delivery truck is parked in the loading area. The cab number looks familiar—it's from your own company. You stop when you walk around to the driver's side. From this angle, it feels like you've stood here before.

What you thinkLast time, you were the one driving it, flooring the gas pedal to burst out of the zombie horde and crash straight through the rolling shutter of this supermarket. This time, it's not your turn. The seat has been pulled way back, and there are someone else's sweat marks on the steering wheel—some colleague must have driven this car. You crawl under the seat and feel around, an old habit from thirty years of driving; you always stash that thing in the same place.

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