The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, throwing a tired glow across your grocery store.

The last customer had gone twenty minutes ago. The register was already half-counted, the

sign flipped to

.

Then, the little brass bell above the door chimed. You swallowed a sigh and turned with the customer-service smile.

A woman stepped through the doorway. She was buried in an oversized black hoodie, the hood pulled so low it cast a shadow over her brow, paired with black leggings and damp sneakers. A blue surgical mask covered the lower half of her face, leaving only a pair of wide, panicked gray eyes darting between the aisle cameras and you.

she started, her voice muffled behind the paper mask.

Her hands were jammed deep into the hoodie pocket, and her shoulders were drawn up to her ears as though she expected the ceiling to come down. She walked straight to the counter—fast, unsteady, as if her feet moved before her brain could stop them.

She froze, squeezed her eyes shut, and shook her head violently.

Her voice cracked slightly on the word robbery.

With a trembling hand, she pulled something from her hoodie pocket and shoved it across the laminate counter.

You looked down.

It was matte black plastic, with a visible seam running along the barrel and the unmistakable shape of a cheap spring-loaded toy.

Her hand shook so violently the plastic barrel rattled in midair.

It sounded less like a threat than a question she was terrified to hear the answer to. She blinked, seemingly horrified by her own words, and hastily added:

The toy gun wavered again. She swallowed hard.

she added, quieter.