Don’t be a hero.

But I’m not being a hero. I’m just being a human.

I snatch up the shotgun and slide over the counter with it, which sends my homework sprawling to the floor with a thud. I almost bust my butt by slipping on one of the stray pieces of paper and I let out a pathetic little scream.

The robber whips his attention my way and that makeshift bandana hides everything but the surprise in his eyes as he takes in the sight of me: a five-foot-four-inch mess pointing the shaky barrel of a gun at him, hoping my finger is on the trigger—and at the same time, hoping it’s not.

My legs involuntarily run toward the door, bursting through it, making the jingle bells angry. I’m not graceful, either, like in the movies when an organized SWAT team busts in on a hostage situation. I’m all elbows and knees, running like an ostrich in boots and coordinated as a dazed fly that just got swatted. Oh, but that doesn’t stop me. “Get down on the ground,” I yell, surprised that my voice doesn’t tremble as much as my insides do. “Or I’ll blow a hole in your … I’ll shoot you!”

Since I obviously can’t decide which part of him sounds the scariest to shoot a hole through, I go for directness. Directness is my specialty, anyway.

“Now, listen here,” the guy says, and I swear I’ve heard that voice before. I scrutinize the eyes widening just over the rim of the bandana but I can’t tell what color they are because of the blue fluorescent beer sign in the window right behind us. And there’s no way I can form a face out of his hidden features. “Take it easy,” he says calmly, as if I’m the one who’s cornering a helpless old man against a truck. “I’m not here to hurt you. This is between me and him.”

To my surprise and terror, I take a step forward. “I said get down. Now.”

Wow, I’m going to die. What if this guy is allergic to bluffing? What if he makes me pull the trigger? I don’t even know if the gun’s safety is on. Dios mio, I don’t even know if the gun has a safety.

The robber considers for several terrifying seconds, then raises his gun at my head, takes three intimidating steps toward me. I back away, hating myself for being a coward. I stop myself before I hit the glass door of the store. Cowardice has a threshold, I guess.

“Here’s how it’s going to go,” he says gruffly. “You’re going to leave the gun right there and go back in the store and stand over there by the chips so I can see you.” He motions with the end of the gun.

“No.”

This elicits a huff from beneath the bandana. “Unbelievable.”

“You leave your gun here.” If he thinks it’s a good idea, then I do too. Still, I’m not sure what I’ll do if he actually does put his gun down. Secure him with plastic zip ties from the boxes of candy bars that need to be stocked?

“You’re a crazy little thing. Do you have a death wish or something?”

Oh God. He truly seems interested in the answer. “I … I don’t want you to hurt Mr. Shackleford.”

Rolling his eyes, he says, “Well, put the gun down and I won’t.”

I want to put the gun down. I do. I want to cooperate. I want to live. But this gun is my only leverage. “No.” Did I say no? Did I just say no?

“Fine. Keep the gun. New plan.” He uses the back of his hand to wipe some sweat off his forehead. “I’m going to leave. And you’re going to let me.”

“I’m calling the cops.”

“Jesus, who are you? Look, you don’t know how to shoot a gun, I can tell. And besides that, I definitely do know how to shoot a gun, so I have the advantage. If you fire at me, I’ll shoot back. Understand?” When I hesitate, he adds, “When I start shooting, I’m aiming at the old man first.”

“No!” I blurt. “Don’t shoot him.”

He nods. “I won’t. As long as you let me back out of here. Just like this.” He takes two steps backward, never dropping the gun.

“But you haven’t robbed us yet,” I say. Out loud. Idiota.

“Are you freaking kidding me? You want me to rob you?”

I raise my chin a little. “Well … It’s just that … What did you come here for then?”

He shakes his head, then backs away more toward the end of Mr. Shackleford’s truck, never lowering his gun. “You’re crazy as a raccoon in daylight, you know that?”

I am crazy. He’s right. “You should remember that, if you ever come back here again.”

At this he runs, turning his back to me. Sprinting away, he pivots sharply and heads toward the side of the store. It takes me a second to realize what he’s doing. Within a few breaths he emerges from the shadows pedaling my bike as if an angry boar were chasing him. The wheels wobble as he struggles to balance it, one hand gripping his gun and the other on the handle.

My.

Bike.

Right now I have the perfect shot. If I knew how to shoot a gun. And if the safety wasn’t on. If it has a safety.

I take aim anyway, cradling the butt of the gun in my shoulder like some kind of hunter, and fantasize about blowing out the back tire of my bike. About this guy face-planting on the asphalt. About that stupid cowboy hat taking flight like a startled bird.

But his silhouette disappears into the night. And the moment is over.

I let out a huge breath and turn just in time to see Mr. Shackleford sink to the ground, wiping the truck clean of any dust with his descent. His legs spill out in front of him as he looks up at me. “You … You saved my life,” he says. His voice shakes like he’s freezing.