His mother, oblivious, was glued to her phone. When I walked past, the kid snapped his head toward me, eyes glassy. “They’re in the vents,” he whispered. “You hear them, too, don't you?”

Tabitha dismissed my concern with a laugh. “Kids are weird. Get back to work, Evan.”

An hour later, as I was locking up, I heard it—a faint scraping, like nails on metal, coming from the ceiling vents.

“Yes, friend,” I whispered to the empty store. “This is fine.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5634075&forum_id=2\u0026mark_id=5310905",#48336402)