Robbing a bank was tricky business. The bank had to be situated in the right town – away from the big cities and their top-of-the-line security, but not in such an isolated town that the teller would have fifteen dollars. The teller had to be weak enough to not fight back, but strong enough to stay conscious. The bank had to be busy enough to be easy to slip away, but not so busy that running away would be impossible.

Noah walked past the main street of the umpteenth small town. He yawned, scratching at the stubble on his chin after days of being in a cramped van. Old sunglasses covered tired eyes and his suit was only slightly rumpled, with worn-out cuff links shaped like anchors. The suit jacket was a little short in the arms, like he had grown a few inches since he bought the suit, and a small scar was visible on his wrist.

He walked into the Rabobank, smirking at the name like he always did. As he waited in the slovenly line, he scoped out all the tellers, trying to pinpoint the perfect target. An old woman and her wilting smile caught his eye, and he knew she would be perfect. She was old enough to be considered senile if she tried to call for someone, and her wrinkles would disguise any contortion of her face.

Noah inched towards the front of the line, and once he made it to the front, his eyes never left the second booth. It seemed like the man the old woman was helping was almost done, just signing some papers…

Ding!

A disembodied voice from the fifth booth called out for the next customer, and Noah's heart dropped through his ribs. He hated this part.

He grimaced inwardly as he approached the open teller, a young girl in a perky black ponytail. She consciously readjusted her sweater guard to cover her ugly nametag as Noah walked up, starting to sweat under his sunglasses. She smiled prettily as he stopped in front of her and her bangs rubbed against her eyelashes as she asked how she could help him. Noah hated this part.

He didn't have to answer, and he saw her turn from helpful to quizzical. He saw it change to fear as he reached into his jacket for the moneybag, making sure he showed his gun.

Noah was surprised, however. Instead of gasping loudly or fainting, the girl said nothing. Though her eyes went wider than dinner plates and her hands shook as she took the bag from him, she was calm. Her wide eyes never left his jacket.

Noah checked his watch. It was 12:48, right on –

Suddenly, the girl's hand was on his and he felt himself lurch almost straight through the telling booth. Noah started cursing in his head – the girl's calmness was nothing more than a ruse; he hated when they were –

"Noah?"

Noah looked up in shock at the girl, who was studying the scar on his hand as though it were a prophecy. Her sweater guard moved, and he could finally read her nametag.

Clara.

Noah felt his stomach twist. He had just compromised everything.