“Nyla, dear,” my mother calls.
“Coming,” I say. I grab my black bag, pull my hair into a bun and carefully tie the laces on my sneakers. Lastly, I grab my gloves and run downstairs.
“Come on, we’re going to be late,” my mother says as she grabs the car keys.
I run out the front door. “Sorry,” I call over my shoulder.
She follows me out the house and slides into the driver seat of our rusted silver car. I jump in the back and turn my phone off.
“What time is it?” I ask her.
“23:27,” she responds, as she turns down the street about a block away from our destination. “Are you ready?”
She pulls up to the curb in front of the bank. I unzip my bag and pull out two 22-caliber guns. I hand one to my mother, pull my ski mask over my face, and get out the car.
I follow my mother into the bank and we prepare to do our bi-weekly mother-daughter activity.