“Pull over!” a rickety, old police car yells on the megaphone behind me. I’ve got this feeling of absolute uncertainty right now. I opted for the motorcycle. I found one that worked at the junk yard, one that could do the job and could be destroyed right after.

But now, I realize it’s only put a target on me, and not my partners, who opted for a faster car. Figures. But there are some tight alleyways up ahead. I know them like the back of my hand. I just have to make it over there in time.

“No cops in sight,” Craig announced as we arrived on the scene. He didn’t think they’d respond as fast as they did. I kept screaming at him, “In and out, in and out!” But it didn’t matter. Things were going wrong. People weren’t getting down fast enough. The bank tellers weren’t playing by the rules. This usually doesn’t happen, but in Texas, you never know how people are going to react. There are a lot of heroes in this state.

“Pull over! You’re under arrest!” the car says again, completely robotic. It makes me hate the state more. But then I think of Marshall. Is he on his way to find me? What will he do if he sees my ass on this motorcycle? Will he know it’s me? Will he protect me? He sure as hell wouldn’t. It would break his damn heart.

Sirens sound in the distance. I can hear them coming closer. I flip off the car behind me and rev my engine faster, nearly sliding my bike on the ground to make a 90 degree turn into that familiar alley way. I used to play in this alley and now I’m running from the cops in it. Up ahead, there’s another set of alleys, and another after that. It’s endless over here, and us poor people know it fucking well.

I make a series of turns and finally, I stop. I get off the bike and head out on foot. I climb a fence and jump over, falling on the dirt. I pick myself back up and look around. I’m near my place now, but I can hear the helicopters coming. I reach my gate and slide the key in. I run up the long set of stairs, but I don’t go inside. I look out from the bars of the balcony. The cops’ lights are moving in the opposite direction now. They haven’t got a clue. I’m safe for now.

When the sirens finally shut off and the lights disappear, I slam my fist against the wall of my apartment and scream. “Fuck!” That’s the closest I’ve ever been being locked up before. I mean, before this, I wasn’t an angel. No “poor” kid is, they say, but that’s only because you want certain things like food, or a nice blanket, or jacket to keep you warm when it turns winter. I mean, my parents probably could have afforded those things, but asking them meant screaming. It meant they wouldn’t be allowed to buy their lottery ticket or third cigarette pack for the day.

I pace around the room and I don’t know what to do. Are the guys okay? I mean, are we going to get away with all of this? There’s no way to get ahold of them now. I’ll just have to play the waiting game. I don’t even have a TV, so I turn on the radio in my bedroom and listen.

“There may be a possible suspect in police custody as we speak, Jen…” A news reporter says this one sentence and I immediately run to the bathroom to vomit. I deserve it, of course. We robbed a fucking bank. Two fucking banks! How did I not think this would happen?

Part of me thought it would happen, but the other half thought we could win this one. My only concern is with who they’ve taken in. If it’s actually Craig or Elroy, I think the game is over. Shit, if it’s Craig, I’ll feel a little better. He’s got a tight lid on his mouth. As for Elroy, well, I think he’s got a good heart. He definitely likes me enough not to say my name, but he’s also weak. It wouldn’t be long before they convinced him he’d get a better deal if he got all of us in there with him.

Fuck.

I glance at my phone. It’s sitting next to my unloaded gun and bag of money. There was never any intention of using that gun. It’s just for show. I couldn’t stomach killing anyone, nor would I want to. I’m not that kind of bad.

There hasn’t been any activity on my phone, which I guess could be considered good or bad. Stupid or not, I pick up the phone and dial Marshall’s number, using my app that encrypts my number, as always. “Can’t talk right now. Pretty fucking busy,” he says, voice gruff and angered.

“Sorry. I just heard about the robbery. Did you get the guys? I’ve been rooting for you,” I say, trying to get some answers out of the guy.

“I told you, I can’t talk right now,” he says.

“Oh, I’m sor—” I start to apologize.

“See you,” he says, hanging up the phone.

My heart is fucking racing, but most of all, I’m thrown into a deep despair. Everything is going to be ruined. My chances of getting out of here, my freedom, and I’ll never be able to see Marshall again.

Everything is done for and I’m a wreck.