Page 17

Lyla

I ’m crouched under the lounge snack cabinet, trying to fish out a rogue granola bar that rolled into the abyss, when I hear a muffled thunk-thunk-thunk followed by an aggressive, “HELLO?”

I freeze, then scramble to my feet.

Not again .

I make my way toward the supply-slash-printer closet. The door handle rattles like someone’s trying to escape a padded cell.

“Hang on,” I call, already wincing. “Marcos, is that you?”

“YES,” he yells. “I’ve been in here forever. I think I missed a birthday. Possibly mine.”

I jiggle the handle and shoulder the door open, revealing Marcos looking very much like he just crawled out of a post-apocalyptic bunker.

His salt and pepper hair is sticking out in all directions, his shirt half-untucked, and the look in his eyes is feral.

He throws his arms around me, hugging me like he rode out a category 5 hurricane in a porta-potty.

“I thought I was going to die in there,” he says.

I squeeze his shoulder, pulling away from his python-like embrace. “You were locked in the supply closet. With snacks.”

“I ate the mints. All of them. And I made peace with my ancestors.” He points to the printer. “That thing growled at me.”

“It’s the latch,” I explain, waving a hand at the frame. “The humidity swells the doorframe, and then the lock sticks. You can’t let the door close. Ever .”

He stares at me, wide-eyed. “So this is a known issue? This is a thing ?”

I shrug. “Told Cathy about it six times.”

“Of course you did.” He walks away slowly, like he expects the floor to collapse next. Before heading off to his office, he turns and points at me. “That closet’s cursed, Lyla. Mark my words. Cursed.”

I give him a thumbs up—because I know better than to let myself get stuck in that closet.