Past the stainless steel appliances, into the darker middle of the kitchen, like an advancing warrior, Malcolm stopped only once to slide a wooden spoon out of the canister where they sat drip-drying. He may not be able to shoot someone for invading his space, but he could damn well give some smart-ass brat a decent wallop or two.
A pleasant hum met Malcolm’s approach and it took him a second to realize his visitor was singing; a low, deep, under-the-voice mumble that seemed to harmonize with itself in the echo of the walk-in. He had to strain to hear the words and even then they were vague, something about mercy and light, but the melody was sweet and melancholy.
Malcolm stepped up to the open door, ensconced himself in the light radiating from inside the unit, and caught his breath at
