Old Man Kowalski’s iron-shod foundry boots skidded to a halt on the wet concrete apron five feet from the glass doors of Store #04.
Behind him, two hundred terrified mothers, children, and mill workers from Canal Bridge 9 pressed against the dry curb in a panicked wave. Their coats were soaked with purple-black mist, their chests heaving from the two-block sprint down Old Ferry Road.
Ten yards behind the back rank of the crowd, twelve seven-foot Municipal Curfew Wardens glided through the street puddles, joined by the twelve Wardens already circling the intersection.
Their faceless gray slate heads tilted forward in unison. Twenty-four iron citation hooks hummed with 60 Hz current as the Wardens raised them to drag the stragglers off the curb.
“Get the kids inside the store!” Kowalski roared, waving his heavy pipe-wrench toward the glowing OPEN 24 HOURS neon sign. “Julian’s got the doors open!”
“Hold the curb, Kowalski!” Julian shouted from the threshold, throwing one hand up against the door frame to stop the front rank before a single boot touched the black rubber welcome mat. “Don’t step on the pressure mat yet!”
Above the ice-cream freezer inside Aisle 1, the red LED digits of the Municipal Fire-Code Occupancy Counter pulsed like an open artery:
