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“Next, please.”
Bringing my eyes down and fixing my expression, I find the teller at the counter watching me.
She pastes on a fake smile and shuffles a stack of paper slips as Aubree and I move forward. “Hi.” Her smile seems to grow fractionally more genuine as we approach. “Welcome to Copeland First National. How can I help you?”
Before I can speak or pull up the attachments Archer sent, the drama to our left escalates.
“You take a man’s house!” the panicked customer roars. “You refuse to help.”
“Sir?” One of the doddering security guards presses his hand to the man’s arm. “I’m going to need you to calm down.”
“My baby needs the money!” he sobs. “Andthisasshole,” he thrusts his hand toward the manager in a sharply pressed suit on the other side of the desk, “won’t give it!”
“You can’t afford another loan, Mr. Slade.” Shamefaced,Sharp-Suitwrings his hands. “We’ve done all we can.”
“You haven’t doneeverything!”
“Ma’am.” My teller attempts to pull my attention back to her. “How can I help you?”
“I’ll pay everything back,” Slade cries. “I swear I will. My baby needs surgerynow, but the hospital won’t do it unless I prove we can pay.”
“I’m sorry…” The manager shakes his head. Sad. Regretful. “I cannot approve your loan, Mr. Slade. You simply have nothing left to give us.”
“You can take my home,” he cries. “Take it! Take everything in it.”
“You’re already in foreclosure. You’re months behind on your mortgage.”
Everyone inside the building is now brutally aware of a man’s personal business. And though the rest of us should mind our own, we forget everything we’ve ever learned about manners, and stare.
We observe, firsthand, another man’s downfall.
“There’s nothing left,” he’s finally told. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t say you’re sorry!” Slade grows angry again. Enraged. “This is a fucking bank. Youhavemoney!”
“This is a business,” the manager reasons. “We can’t just give money away for free.”
“Sir.” The old, overweight—and frankly,slow—security guard tries once more to tug Slade back. “You need to leave now.”
“No.” He drags his arm free and spins on the manager with a glare. “Make it work.”
“Mr. Slade, I can’t—”
“Make it work!”
“It’s time to go now.” The second security guard steps forward and pulls Slade’s arms around his back.
But the distressed father is younger, faster, and ahellof a lot more desperate. So he swings around and snatches the gun from the guard’s holster, then pivots again and points the weapon square between the manager’s eyes.
“I said…” He cocks the gun and pants, his chest and shoulders growing with every inhalation. “Fix it.”
Screams. Bedlam. It’s like we’re inside that toy store again, but worse.
So much worse.
“Oh shit!” My teller dips to the floor on her side of the desk as alarms wail.
Quicker than me, Aubree ducks—and yanks me with her. “Get down, Mayet! Jesus.”
