The world spun, then her head hit concrete. “Oof,” she grunted, realizing that she’d stumbled and fallen, tripping on her own legs. Not a consequence of dueling with the Mind Robber, but her own less-than-ideal coordination.
The back of the train disappeared into the tunnel, its lights fading into black.
The Mind Robber got away.
“Are you okay?” a man asked, kneeling down and offering a hand.
She waved him off with a frustrated sigh, and though she didn’t have extraordinary smelling, the scent of alcohol on her breath clearly came through. Ceiling dust from earlier had melted with sweat, creating a thin but very palpable and very gross grime on her head. To top it off, her left pinky finger was now mashed into a wad of gum.
She pushed herself off of the Metro station floor. A small crowd formed around her, staring, some taking pictures, and some talking on their phones. “Holy shit, dude, the Throwing Star is right here and she totally ate it while running.”
Don’t punch him don’t punch him don’t punch him.
“You look like you could use a beer,” a woman in a business skirt and glasses said.
A beer. Problem was, she’d already had a drink. Six in fact, a whole pack that she’d noticed sitting in the hallway on her way up to her apartment’s roof. The original plan didn’t involve finding the Mind Robber, or even to drink all those cans. She’d donned her speed-resistant suit and pulled her FoodFast delivery polo shirt over it, en route to pick up an order from Noodle Tent. Sprinting atop buildings proved to be the fastest way to deliver food, making her the only person in San Delgado qualified to do such things. Her five-star rating probably topped the list of Best Things About Zoe Wong.
But then she saw the six-pack. And several rooftop beers later, her hearing picked up chatter about the Mind Robber. Suddenly, chasing after him—and possibly living up to the reputation the media had built up for her—seemed like a good idea.
Little did she know that the same thing that boosted her confidence also took away her speed and strength. Lesson noted.
“I’d love one,” Zoe said, the whoosh of another coming train causing her hair to whip all around. “But I probably shouldn’t.”
As she made her way out of the station, a new problem surfaced: On which rooftop had she ditched her FoodFast polo shirt? Missing that Noodle Tent delivery put her five-star rating in jeopardy.
3
JAMIE STOPPED, CATHCHING HIMSELF. He’d gone too far this time. Close eyes, deep breaths, count to five, and then open eyes to see the damage.
Damn it. He’d really done it. He looked at the grout brush, then the lines between the countertop’s tiles, then back at the brush. Yes, he’d gotten the coffee stain out, but he’d also scrubbed too hard, wearing away some of the grout.
Twenty minutes ago, he’d arrived home, throwing his cash-filled backpack on the futon cushion. It landed with a thump, startling Normal out of her cat tuffet next to the window. And though he stopped to give Normal a calming pat, his instincts took over, starting with a meticulous cleaning of the litter box, then a complete vacuum of the small apartment. Then organizing his stack of library books into a preferred reading order, putting away the neatly folded clothes in the laundry basket, cleaning the pour-over coffee carafe and kettle before brewing a fresh cup. As it settled, he noticed some drips of coffee had been absorbed into the grout lines adjacent to his row of ceramic mugs, thus kicking off his quest for a completely clean and reset kitchen. All of the fear and concern and guilt from the day funneled into his end-to-end cleaning spree even though it wasn’t Sunday, the day he typically reserved for getting his home in order.
But this. Flecks of dried grout stuck to the brush bristles, and Jamie squinted, examining them as if he tried to break into the memory of the synthetic fibers. He blinked when Normal mewed at him, snapping him back into the present. He had to slow down. He had to regroup. He’d gone too far this time, and though the counter looked clean, a closer examination showed a tiny degradation in the grout.
Damn it. Jamie blew out a sigh and surveyed the room.
So neat. So organized. In fact, it was nearly identical to when he’d woken up here, standing in the middle of a barely furnished apartment two years ago. On that morning, he had blinked as he came to, his eyes adjusting from blurry to focused, taking in the sun shining through the cheap tan drapes onto the futon in the middle of the living space. Once he’d realized where he was, it had dawned on him that he didn’t know who he was. He’d walked methodically through the semifurnished apartment, looking for triggers. Coffee table, bread, water, sink, bed, toothbrush. He knew what those were, their purpose, but none offered clues about himself. Even the mirror produced zero recognition; he didn’t know what history lay behind those eyes, what the story was behind the scar on his palm.
And now? What he wouldn’t give for that blissful ignorance, free from knowing that the injured woman from today was all his fault.
How could he have been so stupid, so reckless?
As with each of his bank robberies, he’d taken his time, planned a strategy, even wrote out his script beforehand and memorized it. He still lacked in execution, but that was why he had checked out some acting books from the library. The whole goal, the entire focus was to get in and out as quickly, as cleanly as possible. That meant brain-stunning the people in the building in a very specific order under a very specific time frame, all while cackling like a cartoon character and reciting over-the-top lines in a not-quite-there American accent.
If he controlled the entire situation, then no one got hurt and he did his job.
Except when one of them had a medical condition.
Jamie cursed at himself, cursed his fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude, cursed the whole damn situation. Not once, not a single time had he ever considered the possibility of a medical issue.
He finally broke, forcing himself to move. A click on the remote control brought his small TV to life, flashing a news report about electrical surges throughout the city before turning to the bank heist. His fingers fumbled to hit the power button again, taking several tries before the screen thankfully went to black, leaving only the sounds of a hungry cat meowing to remind him that he hadn’t given her dinner or her nightly treat of coconut water yet. Jamie set the grout brush in the sink, and obliged the demanding cat.
Seconds later, the room filled with a content rumbling of purrs.
But even Normal’s happy noises failed to remove the trauma of the day. The sound of the woman’s head hitting the tile. The sight of the blood pooling. The desperate cries of her coworker.
Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it.
Onward. Next task: the money. He grabbed the backpack and headed to the bedroom. The backpack’s large top zipper got caught as he tugged on it, and the stress of the day gnawed at his patience, skipping past his normal mode of meticulously fixing it and jumping right to forcing it free. On the underside of the zipper, the corner of a hundred-dollar bill clung in between the metal clasps.