There really wasn’t enough time to hang around after the job was done. Cheyenne had just rounded the corner before the first siren sounded, and her black sweats were making a swishing noise as the sheen pant legs rubbed together at a much faster than usual, faster than on her morning walks. The noise was lost on her, she didn’t hear much of anything, only focused on what she could see ahead of her.

She was a block away when she turned back and saw a few still-scared locals spilling out of the lobby and onto the street. She was three blocks away before she heard the faint whoo-ing sounds of the nearest police unit responding to the scene. By that point she was beginning to breathe noticeably heavier, an icy puff forming from her lips with every exhale. As she trodded forward, it occurred to her that this morning’s walk wasn’t usual at all. It was far, far from it.

She was five blocks away when that first cruiser she heard coming sped past her, obviously in a hurry to First National Bank on 27th. Her gaze had been fixed ahead of her for the past few minutes, nervously charting a path through the morning crowd of people shuffling through the streets. They just idled right by, many silently, granting no special attention to the brown woman dressed in all black athletic wear who was now working up a sweat. Cheyenne wondered if any of them had ever considered robbing a bank. As she did, she pulled her arms nearly to her chest, and tightened the straps of her back pack closer to her. Now she craned her neck down and now watched the joints of the sidewalk pass beneath her like credits at the end of a movie. She watched it as if she expected it to tell her where to go as she power walked along.

As she looked closer, and paid more attention, it occurred to her that there were more broken and splintered lines and cracks in the pavement than not. She wondered if someone would fix them someday, or if the cracks would eventually cause the concete to fail; and crumble. She wondered if she herself were beginning to crack, or whether she had already fallen into disrepair. In her haste to get as far away as fast as possible, she’d missed her street, by several hundred feet.

She figured there was no point in her losing her cool, and reasoned with herself that it actually made sense to keep moving. To not have a record of going straight home should any cameras be watching.

Yes.

She’d go to somewhere with poor camera coverage; and ditch her bag, change her clothes, something like that. Something smart, like from a movie.

So that’s what she did, she booked it north, then turned a few blocks later and went east a ways, then found herself on the perimeter of the old City Park. She eased her way in, sticking to walking trails to not stick out too much. Cheyenne found the first restroom she could, and as she scurried into what was surely some local architecture student’s project, based on the overly complex roof structure and ample natural light entering a shared entry area. As she made it completely into the room, the door to the men’s room opened, and a uniformed cop walked right out. He wore similar colors to her, his uniform a shade lighter than her sweats. Either by design or by years of washing and fading.

She froze for about half a second, taken aback at the situation she’d found herself in. Then she realized that there’s no way he knew who she was, he had no reason to suspect her. So, she adjusted her frame, and continued her stride to the women’s room, more confidently than when she walked in.

It took the cop about two full seconds to realize what he was looking at as she crossed the room; he movements jittery and suspicious. Hardly missing a beat, the officer whose badge read Johnson said calmly but assertively, “Ma’am I’m going to need you to stop right there.”

So Cheyenne stopped in her tracks halfway through the room as ordered, immediately losing all that confidence she’d just mustered.

“Yes off- officer? Can I help you?” Her voice cracked as she said it, which she hated because it did not make her look less suspect.

“Ma’am have you been to this restroom before? Perhaps to exchange money for drugs?” the man named Johnson bellowed, with arms now crossed about his burly chest.

“What? No. God no! I’m poor and I never come here.” Cheyenne offered then realized just how shitty, entitled, and rude that must have sounded.

“Am I free to use the restroom now?” she protested, some of that confidence restored since he evidently didn’t recognize her as a bank robber.

Before Johnson could stop her, she’d already made her way into the ladies room. The door shut behind her, and she heard him say something; but nothing important enough to have stopped her, because she heard his boots shuffle out of the building and onto the grass.

Cheyenne slumped against the wall, caught her breath, and thought about what to do next. A minute couldn’t have passed, and she heard footsteps back outside in the open room between the men’s and women’s. They weren’t Johnson’s, too light to be his. She realized that she hadn’t locked the bathroom door behind her, and reached up for it now on the off chance a woman was approaching the restroom.

They door swung open as her hand was coming to the bolt. She yanked it back, like she’d burned herself on a hot pan. The woman which entered the restroom was clearly stoned. It was inside of a few seconds, mainly because of the clothes she wore and the scent she bore. The two women locked eyes, and it was obvious to Cheyenne this lady was not in her right mind.

She realized that’s probably what Johnson thought of her initially. She must have welcomed herself into a sketchy area. The other woman just cocked her head at Cheyenne a little, who was seated on the ground and clutching a black bag. The black bag was by all appearances ordinary enough on its own, but the zipper to the big pouch was slightly undone, probably from all of the hustling done up to this point.

The other woman’s gaze was fixed on the little (but thick) triangle of unmistakable green paper poking out of the big pouch. She lunged at Cheyenne, bearing the face of a woman who doesn’t play fair. They played an intimate game of tug of war over the bag, until eventually the bad lady had put all of her weight into pulling the bag free from Cheyenne’s grip. She suddenly let go, and her body shook freely as if she were seizing. Turns out she was seizing, since Johnson had snuck back in and tazed her.

Seeing the woman shaking, and Johnson’s concerned frown were the last thing’s Cheyenne saw before the released tension from the backpack was transferred to her, and her head catapulted backward toward the tiled wall. As contact was made, an uncomfortably loud smack echoed in the small room. The white and green tiles behind Cheyenne’s head were now spattered with a little bit of red, and had a spiderweb of cracks running throughout them. Cheyenne’s lifeless body slumped to the floor, and the other two were too stunned to speak, so for a few moments they just stared in awe, then called for help.