Inside, it was different. Those interior barricades of Tyvek-bagged roofing shingles, to start with, that she remembered Janice telling her about. And she saw that Madison had sprayed about three inches of Burton’s Hefty polymer on the inside of the windows, which wouldn’t keep a bullet out, but would stop glass flying, and then this internal Alamo, the bags stacked like giant bricks, in walls about three feet thick, maybe seven feet tall. She guessed it went straight around the inside, with an opening for the front door, probably one for the hole cut through into Fab, and maybe one in back. The front door had been pasted over, inside, with layers of what Carlos’s vest was lined with, like thin sheets of greenish-purple cotton candy. She’d never understood the physics, just that it somehow translated the kinetic energy of a bullet into momentary steely rigidity, and could sometimes break your arm, doing that, depending on various things. There was a lot of the bland Homes blue of the zip ties they’d used to fasten her to the table at Pickett’s, mostly all these tarps, hung from rafters the acoustic tile ceiling had covered before. She saw a gray wasp nest up there, from however many summers ago. But that dead plumbing smell she’d noticed before was gone too, and she was glad of that.