But, to the great disappointment of everyone involved, the prospect of simply going home is diminishing with every tick-tock of the clock. Every second focused on the entrance, on the people arriving, is one second lost where something could be done to foresee what lies ahead.

The wind sends a lone bundle of newspaper rustling and rolling nearby – but there's something else, isn't there?

The parking lot is closed. That car is not supposed to be there.