“Thank you for shopping,” I said, handing a customer her receipt. It was just another long day. I hated being a chashier.

Suddenly, I heard glass breaking. Looking over to the front doors, I saw a man wearing all black. A bag in one hand, a gun in the other.

He walked up to me and pressed the gun between my eyes.

“Put the money in the bag.” His face was concealed by a black mask, but the voice was unmistakable.

“Marty, no,” I pleaded. Marty was my co-worker. We often talked while closing the store up. Now the conversation we had just two weeks ago was ringing in my ears:

“I never got anywhere in life. I’m 55 and I’m still working here. It makes me sick sometimes,” he had said.

“You got a family that loves you,” I had told him.

“And I can barely support them. I’m gonna rob this place some day, get the money I really deserve.”

I had laughed.

“Please, don’t,” I said presently.

Marty’s hand was shaking. “Give me the money.”

“Marty…” I whispered.

He pulled the trigger.