They came en-masse. Old, wornout, young; male, female, other; sane, insane, unassessed. Piss shit garbage clung to them, marked them as Other. A large quiet group walking in the mall. A school of grimy sardines they turned, and entered Jones’ Department Store.

They split up. They looked wonderingly at brushes; frowned in confusion at clothes; poked dirty fingers at shoe soles.

A young manager approached a knot of them. They were admiring an alpine outfit, Ready For Winter 2014.

He cleared his throat, paused. “May I help you?”

A man turned, shook his head. “No, we’re just browsing.”