Page 69 of One Adult, Please

When we step back into the plaza, Wondie Hat is closer again.

Fifteen feet now. Still smiling. Still wrong. Still wearing foam sunglasses.

"Wondie Hat is stalking us," I say.

"Stimulus following," Grant says.

"Stalking. With branding."

Captain’s first shift buys us Sunrise Grill and the Emporium. Then Grant recalls him, and we lock ourselves inside the gift shop while the wrong people drift back across the plaza. We eat, regroup, and give Captain an hour to rest.

When he goes up again, furious as ever, the plaza empties east for round two.

The next three buildings go faster. The smoothie bar is empty. The WonderSphere Information Center has one wrong person inside wearing a GUEST SERVICES name tag and still standing behind the counter as if waiting for the next complaint. The pizza place has four wrong people. Beck and Joel handle them while Grant and I watch the doors.

Each time we clear a building, Joel locks it. And each time Joel locks a building, he does something that I don't notice at first because I'm busy coordinating and managing Kevin, who is treating the clearing operation as his personal buffet, eating decorative plants from every planter we pass.

After he locks a door, he takes a black marker from his pocket, a maintenance Sharpie that he's had since Day One, and he writes on a piece of cardboard from the nearest available source, and he tapes the cardboard to the door.

I notice it at the pizza place. He's finishing with the tape when I come around the corner.

THE PIZZA FOOD ROOM, the sign says. In Joel's handwriting.

I look behind us, at the trail of buildings we've already secured. There are signs on every door.

The smoothie bar: THE DRINK ROOM. The information center: THE QUESTION ROOM. The Emporium: THE SUPPLY BEDROOM.

He's been doing this the whole time. Building by building.

"Joel."

"It's faster," he says matter-of-fact. The tone of a man explaining a maintenance decision that has nothing to do with feelings and everything to do with efficiency. "If you need to find a building in an emergency, you'll look for your name for it. It's wayfinding. It's practical."

"You're putting my words on the buildings."

"I'm putting clear labels on secured locations."

"You're putting my words on the buildings."

"They're practical labels."

"Joel, you wrote 'the supply bedroom' on a gift shop."

"That's what you call it."

"I know that's what I call it. I call it that because my brain calls it that. I didn't think anyone was listening."

"I'm always listening." He says it like it's a spec. "It's practical," he says again, and walks toward the next building.

I stand there for four seconds, looking at Joel's handwriting on a piece of cardboard labeling a pizza restaurant with my made-up name in the middle of the apocalypse.

Then I follow him.

Behind us, Wondie Hat bumps slowly into the fountain and turns, still smiling at nothing.

The big middle isn't clear yet.

But my words are on the doors.