Cradling the man's head, I ease his unconscious body down onto the bathroom tile.

With a quick glance around, I make sure we're still alone as I kick open a stall behind me and drag the man inside.

It takes a few minutes of wrangling, and each minute feels like an eternity, where I know someone will walk in on us.

But I managed to get the man's pants down around his ankles, so I set him up on the toilet.

Sorry, buddy.

I make sure the man stays upright and doesn't slide off the toilet. No offense meant. Before I leave

the stall, I execute my plan. The entire reason I'm in the bathroom in the first place,

I need a car. Or, to be precise, a different car. I lean down and stick my hand in the right pocket of the man's bunched-up jeans.

No keys.

I check the left.

No keys.

Then I check one of the back pockets.

Bingo.

Keys.

Leaving the stall, I try to lock the latch so the door doesn't ease open. But it's one of the twisty wheel locks, not a sliding bar,

and I can't reach up over or reach up under with the right leverage.

I'll just have to pray that the door stays closed while I hit the parking lot and hunt for the vehicle.

I step away from the stall and walk toward the restroom door.

It opens as I reach for the handle,

and an older gentleman with a cane lets out a startled squeak.

You gave me a fright, son.

Gotta be careful at my age.

...