Jade
As Ethan closes in on the robber from behind in slow-motion steps, my brain scrambles to take in the scene. For the fraction of a second that the two of us lock eyes, Ethan somehow conveys confidence, signaling he’ll get us out of this mess.
But how? By grabbing the robber from behind, running the risk of a stray bullet blasting into my chest? By sprinting out the door and hoping I’m not crumpled on the floor in a pool of blood before help arrives, or that he himself isn’t shot in his tracks? My heart sinks as I realize that he’s probably not sure of his next move himself.
Again, this sounds like a lingering moment, but it all happens in an instant, because I look away almost immediately to avoid cluing in the robber that someone is about six feet behind him. Ethan, his hair tousled in sweat, holds an index finger to his lips as the robber yanks the purse from my hand. My carotid artery is pulsing so wildly, I wonder if it will explode.
“The register! The register!” the robber hisses, waving his gun in the general direction of the counter I’m standing behind.
I open my mouth to tell him the register is empty, that most people pay their gym fees through automatic monthly withdrawals, but my brain and my mouth are still out of sync. I guess it’s good that I can’t form the words, because A) the register, used mainly for the snacks, isn’t really empty; and B) the gym’s payment structure would probably interest him only if he also happened to be an accountant.
I sense that Ethan plans to make his move—whatever that may be—as I open the register. I force myself not to look at him.
“Now!” the robber roars at me.
My hands tremble as I fumble with the register, then cough loudly as it opens in order to heighten the distraction. Ethan springs in midair, which is when the robber spins around and faces him.
“Freeze, asshole!”
No!
Ethan’s hands rise reflexively as he regains his footing. “It’s cool. It’s cool,” he says soothingly.
“Shut up!” the robber screams, aiming the gun at Ethan’s forehead, both hands clutching it tightly.
Is this my moment? Do I try to leap over the counter and tackle him? Do I bash him over the head with something? Throw something at him? My eyes scan my surroundings. Nothing’s on the counter except a display of snack-bar drinks. Should I throw one of the plastic bottles at his head? It wouldn’t be hard enough to knock him out, but maybe it would rattle him long enough for Ethan to wrestle him to the floor.
Or maybe it would enrage him enough to shoot us both dead.
Dead. I could die right now. The next few seconds could be my last moments on earth. The thought catches in my throat as my family parades through my mind: Dad, Grandma, Pierce, Sydney . . . yes, even Lena.
Maybe I should drop to the ground, then shimmy out of sight. But the gym is just one big open area, other than the activity rooms that are yards from where I’m standing. Those rooms might as well be an ocean away, particularly considering all the hulking pieces of workout equipment blocking every potential path. Besides, what’s the point of boxing myself in even more?
“Go stand by her!” the robber tells Ethan, jerking his head toward me.
Ethan inches toward the counter, his eyes locked with the robber’s.
Robber. That’s what I keep calling him. But what if robbery isn’t his only motive? I’ve considered murder, but there are other possibilities as well. My head swims. I feel faint.
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