The last rows are always a little more ragged in movement than the first, composed as they usually are of the stragglers, the weak, the tired, the infirm. Edgar's still afraid something will go wrong when their turn comes, they won't be able to move fast enough, or they'll try to and lose their grip and Curtis will fall over --

He looks up at Macgregor again, draws a breath, squares his shoulders. (He can do that now, with less of Curtis's weight on him.)

The guard clicks his counter, and the row in front of them bends and sinks to the floor.