The bank is large and ostentatious: marble facades and room for ten tellers, though only three are occupied this afternoon.

I’m pretending to fill out a deposit slip. The small woman next to me is looking for the key to her safety deposit box. I have been waiting eighty-five years for her to die.

Three tellers, thirty-five cameras, four security guards, six minutes to two. The doors open, bright afternoon sun streams across the marble floor for a moment as four men enter in a tight group. As they fan out, I begin counting to myself: three, two, …

“Everybody down! This is a robbery!”, bellows the largest of the group that just entered.

Elizabeth Swan’s heart fails. I take the safety deposit key from her hand and lower her gently to the floor.

Walking swiftly towards the north exit, I count to six then duck. The pistol shot echoes, the bullet zips just above my back. Step. Step. Pause. Return fire blazes a few feet in front of my chest.

Twelve steps, interrupted by gun fire and shouting and I’m out.