The Ticket by Ben Reese

I was counting change to see if I could afford a Slim Jim with my bottle when it started.

“All we want’s what’s in the register,” the guy with the ponytail yelled, but it was the gun in his hand that demanded attention.

The one in the denim jacket flipped Open to Closed, threw the bolt, and pulled the shade. The windows were plastered with cigarette ads; we were in a cave.

“Don’t move,” Ponytail told us. “You can keep your wallets and nobody gets hurt.”

He stepped toward the kid behind the counter while Denim Jacket put his back to the door and pointed his shotgun our way.