"No, no, unacceptable. See if you can find a hose."

"There's one by the mall. Pull it up on the sidewalk." She pointed across the intersection.

Misty jumped out and ran for the hose. I followed out on her side. "Nate, there's no knob. It's one of those security things."

I dove back into the car and popped the trunk. Dad always carried a tool kit for just such emergencies. Well, not just such, but you know what I mean.

I grabbed a pair of vice grips and dashed to the spigot. Misty sprayed the window as I supervised.

"The paint's okay." A wave of relief washed over me. "It's a sign. We're going to make it through this."

"Oh, brother." She shook her head. "We're already here. Might as well get your cinnamon rolls."

"We'll drive right through the middle," I said cheerfully.

I'm not sure who decided our mall qualified as a real mall; there must not be any actual standard for the word. Ours was really more of a large, beat-down shopping center. A couple dozen shops ringed an old three-screen theater.

Together, we dragged a cement trashcan aside and drove down the mall's center walkway.

Looking around, I realized we could easily get cornered here. Suddenly I wasn't so eager for my cinnamon roll fix.