The place is littered with debris: Bone particles, foliage, glass. Even the most vigilant walker would have a tough time making no noise amidst the flotsam. The crunch of a few halting footsteps draws him from the shadows and into the murky light filtering through the shattered skylight, squinting curiously through the motes of dust.

"You're from the hotel?" he asks, noting her clothing. He's no expert on fashion, but he remembers the Nineties better than he honestly wishes he did.

"I don't suppose the door back worked for you."