The Impossible Future: Complete set

should have known. Ain’t nobody robbed me in forty-two years, Jack insisted at least once a week. Who in hell’s gonna bother now?
Jamie wondered whether the old man was begging to be robbed - any excuse to quit the business he said was dragging him to the grave.
Jamie understood the sentiment too well. Albion was the town where dreams came to die. A dreary blip on the map, not enough traffic lights to count on one hand, and sufficient whispers of judgmental busybodies to drive a boy out of his skin. He knew what they thought every time they saw him riding a skateboard or jogging the quiet streets after sunset. They turned down their noses at his long, blond ponytail, gossiped about fights at school, and spread rumors about drugs and booze. Then they tied it together to what happened two years ago and lost all pity.
You’re 17 now, they said. Get on with life. Learn a craft. Earn your diploma. Go down to Burton’s for a proper haircut.
They wouldn’t be surprised to learn he took up crime.
Jamie reeled when he shined his light on the contents of the box.
“Shit.”
The money was there - upwards of a thousand dollars, enough to send him on his way and keep food in his belly until he found a new town and his next grab. However, he didn’t predict the Glock lying atop the cash.
Jamie’s heart raced, so he took a seat. He ran his gloved hands over the gun and wondered whether this was a gift from burglar heaven or a warning. The old man never spoke of a gun, keeping only a hard-to-find baseball bat tucked amid clutter under the front counter. Jamie hadn’t fired a weapon in years - a .22, squirrel hunting with Ben six years ago. He studied the Glock, found the safety, and released the magazine. Full.
“I can’t,” he whispered. “This is beyond stupid.”
He restored the magazine, set the pistol aside and gathered the cash, tucking it into a bank deposit bag lying underneath. He opened the desk drawer and found a pack of Jack’s Marlboros and a lighter. The old man chain-smoked while laboring through paperwork.
Jamie lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
“What the hell is wrong with me?”
Go home. Go home. Every instinct told him to go back to that rat box called an apartment, find Ben passed out on the couch reeking of alcohol and the perfume of another woman.
Don’t let Coop down. He needs me tomorrow. He can’t finish the plan without me. He and Michael Cooper expected their prank to be a fitting end to their junior year. “Alternative cow residue” instead of frozen beef patties would bring them legendary status - and possible expulsion. Jamie almost backed off the last time they texted, just before 1 a.m. He typed the words, I’m out, but he never sent the message.
He didn’t want to disappoint Coop, the only boy who didn’t see him with suspicion or condescension. But if he went to school, he’d have to sit for Ms. Bidwell’s English III exam. The thought of it - and her imperious sneer at his inevitable failure - frightened him more than expulsion.
He took a deep puff and thought of Samantha. Weird, shy, beautiful Sammie. He’d just begun to think she might be his first. And she loved him - never said the words, but he saw it in her eyes. He felt the love every time she tried to steer him back on course. What would she think of him now?
What would any of them think?
“You’re a good man, J,” Ben told him six hours ago before heading across the county line to drown himself at his usual dive. “They’ll see that someday. They’ll get past what happened. So will you.”
You’re wrong, Jamie thought. Just like with everything else.
“Gotta blow this town,” he said. “Not one more day.”
Jamie tucked the pistol inside the deposit bag and zipped it shut.
He took another puff, enough to give him the courage to head out. A packed bag awaited him at the apartment. He only needed Ben’s car keys. He figured that step would be easy. From there …
“This is not what Tom and Marlena wanted for you.”
Jamie dropped the cigarette. The voice, husky and rigid, escaped from the darkness. Jamie knew it at once. He focused the flashlight, and Deputy Ignatius Horne - all 6-foot-8 and 270 pounds of him - filled the doorway, his badge shining in the narrow beam.
The deputy flipped on the office light but kept a hand by his holster. Jamie saw heartbreak crack the deputy’s stern, militaristic features.
“This is not for you, J,” Ignatius said. “You’re a lousy thief and a bigger coward.”
“You’d never understand, Iggy. Please. I’ll be out of town before morning, and you’ll never have to deal with me again. Please?”
Ignatius smiled. “Did you think old Jack didn’t see how curious you were every time he put money in the box and stowed it away in here? He predicted you’d try this by the start of the week. He sure hoped he was wrong. The pistol was my idea. I really thought it might scare you off, given everything you’ve been through.”
“I never would’ve used it … not to hurt anyone. You know me.”
“Used to. Let’s go.”
The deputy backed away, but Jamie did not follow. He unzipped the bag and reached for the Glock. He aimed the gun.
“I can’t live here anymore. Let me screw up my life on my own.”
The deputy unholstered his weapon. “Or I could put it to an end right here. A third Sheridan lying on the floor in a pool of blood. That what you want, J?” He advanced. “Maybe they were right after all.”
“Who?”
Ignatius took a deep breath. “You’ll know soon enough. Your timing is