No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

12:04 a.m.
She dropped six feet and landed on a toilet.
Spine-first, slamming into the porcelain lip with the small
of her back. She rolled off it, kicking a toilet paper dispenser
off the wall, knocking a stall door open. Her skull banged
against floor tile. Flashbulbs behind her eyes.
The toilet flushed.
She scrambled upright, bumping the stall door again,
whirling to face the empty window. Just a triangle of darkness.
Snowflakes swirled inside. The opening was probably too
small for Lars to follow her through, but she couldn’t count on
that. Plus, Ashley was still around.
She backed away from the window, down the long
rectangle of a restroom, past the stalls, past PEYTON
MANNING TAKES IT IN THE ASS, past the stained urinals,
until she bumped into the sink with her bruised back. Another
flare of pain. She’d left her purse here. She scooped it up,
feeling inside for the reassuring jingle of her Honda keys. And
her iPhone.
Three percent battery.
She held her breath and listened. She could hear Lars’s
footsteps outside the window, and his wheezing mouth-breaths
under the whine of the wind. He was stymied now —
unwilling to climb through and risk getting his bony ass stuck,
unwilling to leave the little window unguarded and circle
around the front. It was eerie. He’d given up speaking to her.
Just grunting, huffing animal sounds now.
Keep moving, Darby.
She heard voices from the visitor center lobby. Muffled by
the door. Ed and Sandi had probably heard her fall. And she
recognized the robotic tones of the radio — another CDOT