One Door From Heaven

forth his poetic side in the midst of warfare, after all.
        The FBI doesn't as a matter of habit open negotiations with gunplay, which means the cowboys must have initiated hostilities. And the two men wouldn't resort to violence so immediately if they weren't certain that these Bureau agents know them for who they really are.
        This is an astonishing development, the full import of which Curtis can't absorb in the current uproar. If federal authorities have become aware of the dark forces that pursue this motherless boy, then they are aware of the boy himself, and if they can recognize the hunters, they must be able to recognize the boy, as well.
        Curtis had thought he was being pursued by a platoon. Perhaps it is instead an army. And the enemies of his enemies are not always his friends, certainly not in this case.
        He rounds the end of another work aisle and finds an employee sitting on the floor, wedged into the corner formed by banks of tall cabinets. The kitchen worker is apparently paralyzed by panic.
        With his knees drawn up to his chest, the guy's trying to make himself as small as possible, to avoid ricochets and stray bullets. He's wearing a large stainless-steel colander as though it's a hat, holding it in place with both hands, his face entirely concealed, evidently because he thinks this will provide some protection against a head shot.
        Elsewhere in the kitchen, a man screams. Maybe he's been shot. Curtis has never heard the cry made by a gunshot victim. This is a hideous squeal of agony. He has heard cries like this before, too often. It's difficult to believe that a mere bullet wound could be the cause of such horrendous, tortured shrieks.
        The terror-polished eyes of the man in the colander can be seen through the pattern of small drain holes, and when he speaks fluent Vietnamese, he can be heard in spite of his metal hood: "We're all going to die."
        Responding in Vietnamese, Curtis passes along some of his mom's wisdom, which he hopes will give comfort: "In misfortune lies the seed of future triumph."
        This isn't the smoothest socializing the boy has done to date, but the terrified worker overreacts to this well-meant if less than completely appropriate advice: "Maniac! Crazy boy!"
        Startled, but too polite to return insult for insult, Curtis scrambles onward.
        The anguished screams are to the boy's blood as vinegar to milk, and although a thunderous fusillade halts the screaming, it doesn't as quickly halt the curdling. He's losing his appetite for the hot dogs, but he holds fiercely to them, anyway, because he knows from long experience that hunger can quickly return in the wake of even nauseating fear. The heart may heal slowly, but the mind is resilient and the body ever needy.
        Besides, he's got Old Yeller to think about. Good pup. I'm coming, pup.
        The roar of the long barrage has left his ears ringing. Yet in the aftermath, Curtis is able to hear people shouting, a couple men cursing, a woman, shakily reciting the Hail Mary prayer over and over. The character of all their voices suggests that the battle isn't over and perhaps isn’t going to be brief be brief; there's no relief in even one voice among them-only shirk anxiety, urgency, wariness.
        Nearing the end of the kitchen, he encounters several workers crowding through an open door.
        He considers following them before he realizes that they're entering a walk-in cooler, apparently with the intention of pulling shut the insulated steel door. This might be a bulletproof refuge, or the next-best thing.
        Curtis doesn't want a refuge. He wants to find an escape hatch. And quickly.
        Another door. Beyond it lies a small storeroom, approximately eight feet wide and ten feet long, with a door at the farther end. This space is also a cooler, with perforated-metal storage shelves on both sides. The shelves hold half-gallon plastic containers of orange juice, grapefruit juice, apple juice, milk, also cartons of eggs, blocks of cheese…
        He grabs the handle on a container of orange juice, making a mental note to return to Utah someday-assuming he ever gets out of the state alive-to make restitution for this and for the hot dogs. He's sincere in his intention to pay for what he takes, but nevertheless he feels like a criminal.
        Putting all his hopes on the door at the end of this cooler, Curtis discovers