Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone)

sound.
    After 3 p.m., the locksmith freed a grateful Sam from the storage room. The way Sam carried on, and his level of gratitude, you’d think he’d been a prisoner of war and not a man who’d been subject to a minor inconvenience. Will teased him mercilessly, then called Wong’s and had them deliver chicken fried rice and veggies, and convinced Sam to do the deposit later. He could have a late lunch in the storage room, and write in there.
    “Fine,” Sam said, reluctantly breaking routine for the first time in years.
    Later that day, they heard from one of their customers about a horrible accident two blocks away. A drunk driver had driven straight into the window of Tony’s Pizza just after 2 p.m. He killed two people diners inside the restaurant.  
    “Wow,” Will said to Sam, “You walk by there every day around that time.”
    “I know. Some luck I got locked in the back room, eh?”
    Will smiled. Lucky indeed.
    Will worried a little that something would happen to Sam in the days or weeks after that. But his fear eventually dimmed when no new dream warnings haunted his sleep. Will had found a loophole. And after that, the prophetic dreams had stopped, and he no longer woke filled with dread. Life had become, for the first time in decades, normal.
    But now, a year later, while one stress was gone from his life, another remained – the bookstore.
    He needed to convince Sam to sell it while they still could walk away with something other than debt. Will would be 50 next year, and didn’t need this sort of uncertainty hanging like a pregnant cloud above his head.
    “We should stop the bleeding now,” he told Sam a hundred times, if not a thousand, after the new cafe/bookstore opened just down the street. The new bookstore was gigantic: two stories with music listening stations, comfy love seats and sofas sprinkled throughout the store. Bookstores were supposed to be intimate, and this new behemoth was as intimate as a whorehouse with its trendy cafe serving overpriced coffee and baked goods while hipster music piped through a premium speaker system, sending subtle messaging to their customers that they were in the perfect place to sit back, relax, and eventually buy anything from the books on the shelves to the boardgames on the end caps.  
    Hidden Wonders was the antithesis of the giant store – a narrow hole in the wall packed to the rafters with an inventory that was half used books, and almost half titles that had never harbored hope of hitting a bestseller’s list. It looked like an old and messy closet compared to these new spacious bookstores. Will knew there was no way in hell they had a chance to compete. He thought people wanted small, intimate, and friendly. But the numbers didn’t lie. People said they wanted stores like Hidden Wonders, yet their actions told the truth – they preferred corporate-defined trendy, bargain-priced books, and overpriced snacks. Will found it funny that people balked at paying retail price for a book, something that a writer poured his or her heart and soul into, and which you could only find only in specific shops, yet gladly paid premium prices on coffee, something so readily available and at much cheaper prices.
    He and Sam had the conversation again after lunch. Will suggested they sell the shop to Sam’s usual eye roll and sigh that said, not this again , without having to say it at all.
    There was an investor looking at the property. No, it wouldn’t be a bookstore anymore, but they could get out with a small profit, if they were smart enough to act soon. The investor wasn’t stupid; it wouldn't be long before he could read the writing written all over the wall. The offer would vanish, and Will would be back to wishing for another opportunity. Hidden Wonders’ days were numbered, and the investor’s offer was generous, considering.
    “Our customers love us,” Sam had said, optimism (and delusion) as thick in his blood as ever. “We know what books they like. We know what books to recommend. We know them. We care about them. You can’t get that at these new box stores, and you never will!”
    “That’s not what people care about anymore,” Will said, feeling more defeated than ever. The recent months had beaten and battered their bank account. “How long are you gonna ignore the numbers?”
    “I’m not ignoring the numbers,” Sam said, offended. “But I’m not willing to give up on our customers. People like Mrs. Williams, Mr.