Glass shifts and merges. You stumble, chilled, pressed against each other. Your breath fogs the mirrors, you press your slick hands against shiny glass. Out. There must be a way out.

“How long have we been here?” Jack asks.

You shrug. No windows, no clocks — even your phone’s seemed to have lost track of time. The darkness stretches parasitic tendrils into your body, infecting you with weariness. Your eyes flutter shut, your head nods forward. The tension in your shoulders releases. Jack’s arm is pressed against yours, and you feel the heat of his body seep into you.

Then — ow. Your head snaps up, your eyes squeeze shut against the blinding light. Jack slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle a scream at the sudden movement. He swears — something you realize in your haze that you haven’t heard in a long time.

He grabs your arm, shaking your whole body. “We should go.” The fear in his voice is so raw it must be new — Jack, even arguing in front of judges, never showed anything close to that terror.

There’s a glowing ring beneath your feet. You try not to think of it opening up and letting you drop — perhaps all the way to the building’s glass atrium.

“Let’s keep moving.” You push Jack forward, out of the spotlight, deeper into the labyrinth.

The ring follows you obediently. Jack notices, his eyes widen, and you both run.

It’s too easy to mistake the glow of a light as the exit, or your own reflection as help coming to rescue you. Except, whenever you stop in front of your reflection, you find yourself nose to nose with a horrible distorted version of yourself, with wild eyes and a gapped-toothed smile. Jack looks alright — still with a winning smile and honest hazel eyes. It’s like the mall is mocking you.

The glasses, the mirrors, the blood — it’s like the mall knows your every fear. Like it’s chipping away at you, digging its talons into the soft, fragile flesh as you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to ward it off.

You dig your nails into your palms. You’ve kept this vision of yourself wrapped in layers of warm haze. It’s a vision in which you are triumphant, holding up a trophy or perhaps one of those life-sized checks to the cameras, smiling, almost crying, because you’ve won. Because you’ve finally proven yourself worthy. Except here in the dark, in the silence so thick it muffles everything but your heartbeat, you feel small. Scared. You’re like the bedraggled little bird you found orphaned after the winter’s storm, whom you took in and kept warm and fed. But there’s no one to keep you warm.

You think you hear breathing.

Jack grips your arm. He freezes. You turn. Then you swear.

The light blinds, and your pupils sear. There’s a shape, broken by a fluttering, bat-like cape. It’s black, except for the light that gleams off two electric-blue eyepieces, and the curve of a stitched-leather beak. The figure pounds a staff with a gleaming sapphire crystal into the ground. Glass cracks. You scream. The cracks widen into gaping smiles. The world goes white.

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You fall.

First, you’re thankful for your sneakers. You’re thankful for the half inch of rubber that keeps your feet intact. Then, you’re thankful for the sun — not blinding, but a warm heat upon the back of your still goose-bumped neck.

You look up. You’re under a marvelously warm blue sky, the kind of perfect beach-going day where the water is cool respite. A wooden roller coaster arches overhead, as if plucked from a polaroid, down to the grains in the sea-salt-sprayed wood and the soft haze of the mid-century skyline beyond. Carnival goers laugh, bringing with them the fluffy, sweet scent of cotton candy and popcorn. For the first time in hours, you realize you're starving.

You pry Jack’s fingers from your arm and check your phone. Level 23: Coney Island.

Thinking only of the succulent medieval chicken, you pass under the sign that reads "Midtown USA's greatest amusement park" and scan the boardwalk for candy-cane striped stalls. Jack beelines for one manned by a woman in a sunny apron who's offering corndogs on sticks. But after a single bite of the fried treat, he grimaces. He tries to swallow, gives up, and turns away to spit a half-chewed bite into the sand. It looks suspiciously blue and gooey on the inside.

You and Jack inspect the remaining corn dog, which is quietly oozing what you're now pretty sure is machine lubricant. "Gah." Jack gags. "Machine food for machine people."

You take a second glance at corndog woman. She's handing a child with a balloon another corndog, while staring dead into your eyes. Her smile shows every tooth, and her fingers are ever so slightly too long. And crooked. The child's head pivots like it's on a turntable until her eyes are fixed on you too.

Jack's fingers scrabble at your arm. "Let's get outta here."

You turn to the entrance, except it's been blocked by ten foot tall barbed wire fences that point inside. You're going to have to go forward.

Jack puts on his best smile and pretends that he's just another not-person having a perfect day at the beach. You tail him like a scared wet cat. The unblinking eyes on your skin are making you break out in goosebumps.

"Lovely day isn't?" Jack grins through his teeth.

"Absolutely. Couldn't have a clearer sky."

The heads slowly pivot away. You and Jack delve into the thicket of roller coaster spirals and inflatable bouncy houses and flashing carnival games.

The small talk seems to work. You file the thought in the back of you mind: act normal, pretend nothing's wrong, and they'll ignore you. Mostly. At precisely the moment when you realize you've lost all sense of where you've come from --- the five-way intersections and curving paths aren't helping you find your way --- Jack nudges you to the left.

"Don't look."

You stare at the ground, then risk a glance to your right. A man with the same unpleasantly wide smile corndog woman had stares at you. "Tickets!" he says, except his smile does not change. "Five a piece. Ride the wildest rollercoaster this side of the Mississippi!"

You give your best sales-person smile. "No, thanks."

You do your best to speed walk away without looking like you're beating a retreat. You only make it half a dozen steps before you have to stop and pivot. Jack curses under his breath again. If you had a swear jar, it'd be filling up pretty fast.

Then you remember to scream.

The not-quite-carnival-stand-manager is almost standing on your toes, leering into your face with the same plastic smile. The smell of something yellowed that's been kept in a closet for far too long assaults you. "Rubber ducky?" His arm swings stiffly towards the pond of bouncing rubber duckies, waiting to be scooped up with too-small nets. "One ticket for three tries."

"Not interested," you stammer. You try to duck under his arm, but he steps in front of you. One insistent salesman.

You feel Jack's back pressed against yours, and you don't have to look over your shoulder to know there's someone --- or something --- else behind you. "You kids look like you play basketball. Make a hoop and you'll get a teddy bear."

Jack whispers, "Run."