He was waiting for me.
As soon as I opened the back door to take out the trash, he was on me, pointing the gun at my neck.
It’s been so many years, I don’t remember his exact words, but they were persuasive.
We went back inside. In the span of a few seconds, I do remember being grateful he was wearing a mask.
He wanted the money, which seemed reasonable.
I told him it was downstairs. As I did so, this made my situation much worse.
What if he killed me in the basement?
Since there wasn’t much time to think, we went down the stairs. One at a time, the gun to the back of my head the whole way.
He panicked when he saw some old alarm equipment attached to the office door. I knew it wasn’t connected to anything, but his fear translated to the gun being pushed harder against my skull.
I kept talking, kept reassuring him, and went inside to get the money. The owner had taken the bulk of the receipts around midnight so there was only a couple hundred in the drawer.
He didn’t count it, just stuffed the envelope in his jacket and demanded we walk back upstairs.
One step at a time, with the gun to the back of my head.
At the back door, he told me to get on the ground, which I did. He hesitated.
I couldn’t tell if he was thinking what to do, laughing or searching for his car keys.
I was praying.
I heard the door slam and stayed on the ground for a bit.
Feeling pretty darn lucky. Like my whole life was in front of me.
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