Petey

Gunshots. Alarm. Money in the trunk. Floor it.

That’s always how it goes. From the driver’s seat, I never see the blood. But sometimes, I wonder who’ll be mourning tomorrow.

My car idles in an alley across from the bank. I clutch the steering wheel with white knuckles, waiting for Andy to finish. Two pops – gunshots.

A sharp knock on the passenger window. I jump.

It’s some old woman. She wilts over a cane, barefoot and dressed in a hospital gown.

I wave her off. She knocks again.

Anxiety curdles in my gut. I lean over, rolling down the passenger window.

“Petey! It’s you!” she croaks.

“I… lady, I’m not Petey.”

I begin closing the window. She sticks a sunspot-speckled hand in the gap, frowning.

“Why aren’t you at work, hon?”

The bank alarm wails.

I frantically bat her hand away. “Ma’am, please, you’ve gotta go⁠—”

“Ma’am?” She crosses her arms. “You might be grown, but I’m still your mother.”

I hear Andy before I see him, duffel bag thudding into the trunk. He runs up the passenger side, then stops.

“Liam, who the fuck is this?”

“I-I don’t… she just⁠—“

Andy shoves the woman, her cry cut short by the smack of pavement. He rips open the door and jumps in.

I gape at him.

“The hell’re you waiting for? Drive!”

I floor it, shaking. In the rearview mirror, I see blood pooling on the concrete. This time, I know exactly who’ll be mourning tomorrow.