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Faith

“C’mon, big boy,” says Faith. She’s grinning; he’s red. She slaps him again. “Want to try something?” Slap.

“You’re wasting time,” mutters Clementine.

“Not every day–” says Faith, turning, and the teller swings an awkward punch.

“HEY!” snaps Angel.

“You fucking,” snarls Faith, but her shot’s wild. He grabs his hand and screams. Sudden blood, noise and the drop men walk in. 7:49–they’re early. Two long duffels on a dolly.

Faith feels Angel tackling her behind the counter just as she registers their guns. Why do they have guns? Something’s wrong. She knows, then, that they won’t be alone.

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