The teen tightened the laces on the shiny new air max Nikes, ignoring Mike's sales patter about cushioned soles and handing him her dirty trainers. Her accomplice (boyfriend? husband?) took a slow circuit around racks of adidas and puma. His studied smile dropped when he clocked the security badge on my shirt.
I'd been here three months, long enough to see a half dozen runners. Alarms blaring. Managers swearing.
On cue she bolted, her man pushing over a display to slow me. Just more mess to clean. Minimum wage doesn't buy flying tackles. It buys a monthly shrink report.