When the door chimes sounded, Macy Sangrimm glanced up from her magazine. One look and she was on full alert. Dishevelled and thin as a Rake, the tall, older teen hesitated, furtive glances taking in everything. It was late and there were no other customers.

“Shit! Shit, shit,” Macy thought, taking in the guy, his grubby, unwashed clothes and a scarred black leather jacket. The bright, hazel eyes were an immediate tell. He’d just come down off a high. The region was getting chilly, getting near freezing, yet the boy was damp with oily perspiration.

‘Fucking crack head!’ Marcy concluded, drawing in a deep, quieting belly breath, seeking a place of inner calm, working to quiet a suddenly racing pulse.

‘Let it not be a gun,’ Macy silently prayed, drawing in a second, deep breath, then a third, letting it out slow as he approached. ‘Not a gun, not a gun, not!’ she thought, getting her breathing under control.

Macy slid off her stool, stepped up next to the cash register and placed both hands on the plate glass. Even before the young man spoke, her toe lifted, slid sideways and tripped a silent alarm button.

“Yes?” she asked, forcing a pleasant smile.

His hand went to the opposite sleeve. The hunting knife that appeared wasn’t a surprise, and though it had an eight inch blade, wasn’t even frightening. Marcy only felt relief. She hated guns. She hated them in dangerous hands, and she hated the only certain way of dealing with a pistol or shotgun.

Sweep the weapon and strike. A broken neck. Death. It was so final, and so distasteful.

There was a wild gleam in blood-shot eyes when the blade caught light. For that instant, Macy experienced sadness, even a touch of remorse. She felt sorry for the boy, for his drug addiction, a disolute, ruined life, and for the consequences he just brought upon himself.

“Give me all your cash bitch!” he grated, trying for a tough snarl, failing when his voice ended in a squeak. Instantly angered by his own weakness and fear, he lunged, thrusting the knife at Macy’s face.