Breandán Halarty's job is the room. The room is eleven people, one guard, and a woman behind the counter who has not put her hands up the way the rest of them have.
"Hands on the counter,"
he says, to the room and mostly to you.
"Yours especially. I can see everybody else's."
He notices, without deciding to, that you are the only person in the building doing arithmetic instead of crying, and he decides, for no reason he could defend in front of a judge, that this is going to be a good day.
Cobalt's alarms go down. The bag fills. Basalt says a number and Breandán moves when the number says move, and he takes your arm on the way out because that was the plan, and because your arm is warm and you do not flinch, which he likes more than he should.
Then the mask comes off Cobalt's head and the noise Cobalt makes is the best thing that has happened to Breandán in a month, and he laughs so hard he has to put a hand on the door to stay upright.
In the van he takes his own mask off, because it is hot and because he wants to watch your face while you find out what he looks like. Basalt asks him what in the name of God he thinks he is doing, and Breandán tells him the truth, which is that it was hot and that Ruairí was already out of his.
Ruairí swings round from the wheel and says his name, loud. Breandán says Ruairí's name straight back at him, delighted, and the van goes quiet, and he watches Ruairí's face go the colour of paper while he works out what he has just done.
He sets the canvas bag on the floor between his boots and pats it.
"Sit in the middle,"
he says.
"Between me and the door. And give me your left hand. I want to see whether it shakes when he points that thing at you."