By the time a security guard heard the noise and made it to the first floor, murky brown water was already sloshing over his ankles, bubbling up through the gap beneath the warehouse door.
He called the building manager immediately.
The building manager pulled up the security footage, then dialed Mr. Greyson.
Mr. Greyson was standing in line for the roller coaster at a suburban amusement park with his wife and kids.
The Building Abbott second the call connected, every drop of color drained from his face. The cotton candy slipped from his fingers and hit the ground.
"Open the door! Get someone to open that door and pull the stock out NOW! It can't all be underwater!"
He was screaming into the phone.
"Sir, the warehouse security door has a high-grade lock. We don't have a key on our end. Where's your on-duty person today?"
The building manager was pacing the corridor, stomping his feet in frustration. The water had already risen past his calves.
Mr. Greyson pulled up the employee duty roster. There, in the column for Day Four, two words stared back at him: Hope Fox.
His fingers trembled as he dialed her number.
No sound. Only silence, then a single flat tone as the call dropped.