Jordan closed the refrigerator and looked at the empty shelves long enough to confirm what he already knew.
He'd finished the leftovers last night. Not even the condiment bottles had anything left worth the effort, and he'd checked twice.
He dug into his pocket and came up with a crumpled fifty-dollar bill, the last one until Thursday, and grabbed the hoodie off the back of the chair. He pulled the hood up before he opened the door.
Five minutes to the corner store. He kept his head down the whole way, counting cracks in the sidewalk, which was a habit he'd picked up somewhere along the way because it meant fewer people to make eye contact with and fewer chances for someone to look at him the way people at his job did, the way strangers on this block managed without even trying.
The electronic chime went off when he walked in and the cashier gave him a nod before he had a chance to look up, which meant Jordan didn't have to decide whether to make eye contact first. He'd been coming here long enough that the guy had stopped giving him that look. It took a while, but repetition worked eventually.
He went straight for the chips aisle. One snack with dinner, that was the rule he'd made himself, and he could stick to it. He grabbed the hottest flavor they had and turned toward the frozen section.
Screaming erupted from the front of the store.
"Shut the fuck up and just give me the money!"
Jordan went still. The bag crinkled against his palm.
BANG.
His hands were shaking before he'd made any decision about it. The bag hit the floor and he dropped into a crouch and moved toward the front, the aisles running diagonal through the store and giving him a clear line to the glass doors.
He could make it if he ran now. The guy probably wouldn't even see him.
"Psst. Hey, kid."
A man crouched in the next aisle behind a wall of cereal boxes, military uniform, buzz cut, hands wrapped tight around his phone.
"I know what you're thinking. Don't do it. Someone already called the police and they should be here any second. Just sit back and wait."
Jordan looked at the uniform. Looked at the hands shaking around the phone. Wait for the cops, wait for negotiations, wait to see who panicked first and hope it wasn't the guy with the gun.
He turned and kept crawling.
"What an idiot," the man muttered behind him.
You called the cops to a robbery you're hiding inside.
He made it to the end of the aisle with the door a few feet away, the robber and cashier both out of sight, probably in the back where the safe was. Jordan pushed off the floor and ran.
BANG.
He stopped. Not because of the sound. His ear was gone, heat spreading down his neck, everything collapsing into a high-pitched whine and warmth going wet against his collar.
He turned his head.
The man in the military uniform stood at the end of the aisle with the gun raised, mouth moving, words lost somewhere in the ringing.
Of course it was you.
Jordan dragged himself toward the door and the man fired again, the bullet passing close enough that he felt the air move. His vision narrowed and went dark.
He woke up to someone kicking his leg.
He sat up fast and the world tilted, his hands pressing flat against the floor until it steadied. Still inside the store. Three men stood near the checkout counter holding rifles, the military guy and two others in black masks and tactical gear. The uniform had just been a costume. Jordan filed that away and touched the side of his head, finding bandages where his ear used to be, his fingers coming away sticky.
Ten people sat against the far wall with their mouths taped and hands zip-tied. The cashier who'd stopped giving him that look was among them, pressed against the wall with everyone else who had waited exactly like they were told.
It hadn't helped any of them.
"Nice of you to join us, fatass."
"Now that you're up, you can be useful."
One of the masked men hauled Jordan to his feet and they dragged him toward the front of the store, dark outside now with no way to know how long he'd been out, the street pulsing red and blue through the glass doors in steady bursts.
"Are you sure this is gonna work, boss?" one of the masked men asked. "All this for a thousand?"
"I didn't think they'd send this many," the military man said. "Now I'm improvising."
The man was risking three lives over a few thousand dollars and working without a plan. Jordan noted this and said nothing.
They stepped outside. At least thirty officers crouched behind cars and barricades with rifles trained on the entrance, snipers on the roof across the street, spotlights cutting through the dark. All of that for three people and a thousand dollars.
"Drop your weapons and put your hands behind your backs!"
The military man shoved Jordan forward, one hand on his shoulder. "Put the person in charge on the mic!"
A few seconds passed and then a different voice came through the speaker, a woman, calm and professional.
"What are your demands?"
"We have a hostage right here and forty more inside. This one needs a doctor, he was shot in the ear. Without proper medical attention, he'll die." The grip on Jordan's shoulder tightened. "We want an unmarked vehicle, safe passage, one million dollars, fuel, and a news anchor."
Silence.
"Deal. But we need that hostage treated first. Give us him and five more and you have a deal."
One of the masked men turned sharply. The military man didn't look at him.
"Deal."
He grabbed Jordan's arm, shoved him forward, and leaned in close before letting go. "It was nice knowing you, fatty."
Jordan's jaw tightened. He didn't say anything.
He walked toward the police line on unsteady legs and let himself believe for a moment that he was going to make it, and then the math caught up with him. The robbers had just given up their leverage. Nothing was stopping the police from opening fire now, and Jordan was still standing between both sides with nowhere to be.
BANG.
One of the masked men behind him went down. Jordan ran, pavement under his feet and air burning in his throat, the hood slipping back and cold hitting his face, and he kept going because there was nothing else to do.
"Hey, fatty!"
Faster.
BANG.
The bullet entered the back of his head and came out the front, and Jordan's body hit the pavement, and his last thought before everything went dark was that at least it was over.