The car engine's gentle hum served as a subtle reminder of the world moving around me, even as I sat immobilised by confusion and frustration on the side of the street outside the bank on Main Road. The sun cast long shadows over the pavement, hinting at the day ticking along, yet there I was, still grappling with the day's unresolved mysteries.

The wait for Cody had been like waiting for a ghost – hopeful yet futile. After venturing through my own Portal and discovering neither hide nor hair of Cody, the truck, or Joel in Clivilius, I was left with no choice but to return home.

What else could I do? The question echoed in my mind, bouncing off the walls of my thoughts, finding no answer. It was a loop of frustration and helplessness, a mental maze with no exit.

"What else could I do?" I murmured aloud, the sound of my own voice startling me in the silent cocoon of my car. I was gazing intently at the bank's stoic façade, as if it held the answers to my quandaries, waiting for some cosmic signal to guide me.

The sudden beep of my phone was like a thunderclap in the quietude, jolting me from my reverie. My heart skipped a beat, and I quickly grabbed the device, eager for any distraction from my spiralling thoughts.

It was a message from Gladys, concise and to the point. "Of course," I exclaimed, a spark of hope igniting within me. Gladys and Beatrix – why hadn't I thought of them sooner? It seemed so glaringly obvious in hindsight.

The text was brief: On our way to the final delivery now. G. This simple sentence was like a lifeline thrown to me as I floundered in a sea of uncertainty. It hinted at action, at progress, at a potential end to this day's enigmatic challenges. I clutched my phone tighter, a renewed sense of purpose coursing through me. Perhaps this was the sign I had been waiting for, the nudge I needed to propel me from my inertia.

The phone barely had a chance to complete its first ring when Gladys's familiar voice filled the line, a touch of casual curiosity in her tone. "Hey Luke. What's up?" Her words, simple and direct, momentarily lifted the veil of solitude that had draped over me.

"Hey Gladys, I forgot to ask you earlier. Can you and Beatrix please collect me a large supply of shelving?" I tried to keep my voice steady, masking the undercurrent of urgency that threatened to surface.

"In our truck?" Gladys's query came with a hint of surprise, as if the request nudged her out of some routine expectation.

"Yes. That's probably the best idea." My response was more automatic than thoughtful.

The conversation took a turn I hadn't anticipated when Gladys voiced her financial concerns. "I don't have any more money to spare, Luke. I have the next mortgage payment coming out in a few days." Her voice carried a weight, a reminder of the everyday struggles that persist even when faced with the extraordinary.

"Don't worry. I have money," Beatrix's voice emerged in the background, her tone dismissive of the looming monetary dilemma. I could almost picture her, nonchalant, waving away the problem with a flick of her hand.

I found myself an involuntary eavesdropper as the sister’s conversation continued, their exchange revealing a glimpse into their dynamic, a mix of practical concerns and impulsive solutions. Gladys's pragmatism clashed with Beatrix's spontaneity, creating a brief, auditory spectacle.

"How do you have any money?" Gladys's question was laced with curiosity and perhaps a hint of skepticism, probing into Beatrix's unexpected financial declaration.

"Never mind that," Beatrix retorted quickly, her words cutting through the air. "Let's just get this shit done." Her dismissiveness hinted at layers of stories untold, of resources and secrets kept just beneath the surface.

I was jolted back to the forefront of the conversation when Gladys's voice returned, more directly addressing me. "Yeah, Luke. Beatrix has money. She'll pay for it.” The finality in her statement, the resolution of the immediate concern through Beatrix's intervention, left me with a mix of relief and curiosity.

"Anything else?" Beatrix's voice cut through the line, her tone brisk, almost business-like, yet tinged with an undercurrent of camaraderie.

"Umm. Yeah," I hesitated, feeling the weight of my next request. "I also need you to print me some simple instructions for pouring a slab of concrete for a shed."

"Huh?" The confusion in Gladys's voice was unmistakable.

"Gladys!" Beatrix's reprimand snapped through the air. "The hardware warehouse will be able to give us something. We'll ask them while we're there getting the shelving."

"Oh yeah," Gladys's realisation came softly, an audible nod of understanding in our disjointed symphony of planning.

The call's abrupt end, devoid of the customary pleasantries, left a silence that seemed to echo in the cramped space of my car. The absence of a goodbye hung in the air, a reminder of the unspoken tension that laced our every interaction.

I found myself staring out of the car window, my gaze fixed on the bank across the street. The building stood indifferent, its façade a mute witness to the turmoil churning within me. My eyes bore into it, as if by sheer will I could penetrate its walls and divine some hint of future outcomes.

Shaking my head, I attempted to dispel the burgeoning cloud of dread. The voice in my head was relentless, a whisper of doom that I struggled to silence. You're going to get caught, Luke. You're all going to get caught! The words echoed, a sinister mantra that threatened to erode my resolve.

The line between our planned actions and their potential consequences blurred. The weight of our decisions, the reality of our entanglement in this clandestine venture, pressed down on me with a newfound intensity. The mixture of anticipation and fear was a potent brew, stirring a deep unease that contrasted sharply with the mundane setting of my parked car on a street. The juxtaposition of the ordinary and the extraordinary lent an unreal quality to my thoughts, as if I were a character in a narrative spiralling beyond my control.

Breathing deeply, I tried to steady the whirlwind of thoughts. It has to be done, I reassured myself, attempting to inject a dose of resolve into my wavering spirit. My hand reached for the small, green backpack in the backseat, its emptiness crucial for the next steps of my plan. The fabric felt unnaturally heavy as I slung it over my shoulder and stepped out of the car.

The world outside seemed oblivious to the turmoil inside me. I waited, watching the cars zoom by on Main Road, each one a barrier between me and my objective. After a torturous three minutes, a gap finally appeared, and I seized the opportunity, darting across the road with a mix of haste and desperation.

Approaching the bank, I felt a surreal calmness envelop me. The automated doors parted smoothly. Inside, the bank's ambiance was one of mundane routine, its patrons and staff unaware of the anxiety brewing within me.

My steps took me to the ticket dispensing machine, a mundane object that suddenly seemed like a gatekeeper to a critical juncture. Hesitation gripped me for a fleeting moment. How I wished to simply use the ATM, to avoid the personal interaction, the scrutiny. But the enormity of the cash I needed dwarfed my daily withdrawal limit. Last night's consolidation of our accounts was a calculated move, leaving just enough for inconspicuous online transactions. Cash was essential, untraceable in the ways digital footprints never could be. I harboured no illusions about the implications of my actions—soon, the police might start piecing things together, and every transaction could become a breadcrumb leading to me.

With a heavy heart, I pressed the Teller button, releasing a resigned sigh as the machine buzzed and dispensed my ticket. "Seventy-eight," I muttered to myself, the number feeling like a countdown to an inevitable confrontation. My gaze lifted to the digital display, where the current number, seventy-one, glowed back at me. Six people ahead, six sets of mundane transactions separating me from my own, fraught with risk and consequence.

Nestled at the back of the bank's spacious, seated waiting area, I felt like an imposter among the everyday patrons. My eyes darted around, scrutinising faces and gestures, searching for any hint of suspicion directed my way. The normality of the setting clashed with the turmoil inside me, making my heart race with every called number.

"Ticket number seventy-eight, please proceed to teller number four," the sterile, automated voice announced, slicing through my anxiety. It was my cue, the moment I had been dreading yet desperately waiting for.

With a deep, steadying breath, I mustered the remnants of my composure and walked towards the designated teller. The bank's interior, with its bland decor and the soft hum of whispered conversations, felt oddly suffocating, as if the walls were inching closer with each step I took.

"Hello, Sir. What can I do for you today?" The young cashier's voice was a blend of professional courtesy and youthful energy, oblivious to my stomach that churned with my request. Her innocence, so stark against the backdrop of my intentions, momentarily intensified my inner conflict.

As I approached, a nervous gesture betrayed my tension—I rubbed my palms along my jeans, trying to wipe away the sweat and the fear. Extracting my wallet felt like drawing a weapon, each movement heavy with consequence.

"I'd like to withdraw twenty-five thousand dollars," I managed to say, my voice steady despite the storm inside. Handing over my bank card felt like crossing an invisible threshold, stepping into a reality I could no longer escape from.

The cashier's eyes flickered with a mix of surprise and procedural recognition. Such a request was out of the ordinary, yet it was her job to facilitate it. As she took the card from my hand, our fingers brushed momentarily—a fleeting connection that underscored my isolation in this crowded space, where every second stretched into eternity, each heartbeat a drumroll to an uncertain future.

What? I thought, my mind reeling as I noticed the flicker of hesitation in the cashier's eyes. Surely withdrawing that much cash isn't a rare occurrence? A part of me wondered if my appearance sparked her skepticism. Perhaps to her, I seemed too youthful, too ordinary to be dealing with such sums. I couldn't help but smirk internally at the thought, flattering myself that my youthful demeanour might be deceiving.

The cashier seemed momentarily unsettled by my request. It struck me then how our perceptions of normalcy could be so vastly different. To her, this might have been an extraordinary transaction, while to me, it was a desperate measure in a series of calculated risks.

After a brief, "Please hold on a moment, Sir," she excused herself, her steps brisk and purposeful as she consulted with someone I presumed to be the bank manager. Their exchange was hushed but carried an air of urgency, their glances toward me punctuated with nods and subtle gestures.

During her absence, the bank's atmosphere felt heavier, time stretching thin as I stood there, exposed yet invisible among the other patrons. My mind raced with scenarios, each more foreboding than the last, as I pondered the potential repercussions of this transaction.

Finally, the young woman returned, her expression now composed, betraying nothing of the conversation that had just occurred. She carried with her an air of professionalism, but the weight of the cash she was about to handle seemed to linger around her.

The teller's words hit me like a cold splash of reality. "We can only give you fifteen thousand today. You’ll have to come back in a few days' time for the remainder," she explained, her eyes briefly darting to her manager, who monitored our exchange with a vigilant gaze. The unexpected limitation sent a ripple of frustration through me, yet I understood the logic. Banks, with their fortified walls and secured vaults, weren't the cash reservoirs many imagined them to be.

Her explanation continued, aiming to smooth over the inconvenience. "Banks don’t actually carry much cash on premises. There’s no issue, you just need to spread the transaction over a few days, is all." Her voice was calm, intended to reassure, but it only underscored the complexity of my situation.

I nodded, masking my inner turmoil with a façade of understanding. "Allow us the time to get more cash in," she added, her tone suggesting this was a standard procedure, nothing out of the ordinary.

I nodded again, a silent acknowledgment of the compromise I was forced to accept. While it wasn't the full amount, securing any portion of the funds was a critical step forward. The thought that returning for the remainder might not be feasible lingered in my mind, but I pushed it aside, focusing on the immediate victory.

As the cashier began counting out the fifteen thousand dollars in crisp hundred-dollar bills, a wave of conflicting emotions washed over me. I struggled to contain a burgeoning grin, not out of joy, but at the surreal nature of the moment. Each note that passed through her fingers, methodically counted and rechecked, was a tangible piece of my plan falling into place.

The lie slipped out smoother than I expected, a fabricated tale to justify the large withdrawal. "For a new car," I declared, injecting a note of excitement into my voice. "They're giving me a discount if I can pay in cash," I added, offering a smile that I hoped would mask my inner tension.

"Lucky you," the cashier responded mechanically, her attention steadfast on the task of counting the bills. Her indifference was a relief, yet it underscored the solitude of my deceit.

"It's a new one," I blurted out, compelled by a nervous impulse to fill the silence with chatter.

"A new what?" The cashier looked up briefly, her inquiry casual yet piercing, forcing me back into the labyrinth of my own fabrication.

Shit, I cursed internally. Why can't I just keep my mouth shut? Panic fluttered in my chest as I scrambled for a plausible continuation of my lie. My knowledge of cars was laughably superficial, limited to their colours and little else.

"Car," I stated with a feigned confidence, hoping the redundancy would mask my ignorance.

The cashier offered a soft chuckle, perhaps amused by my apparent excitement or the simplicity of my response. "And that's your first fifteen thousand," she announced, her gaze meeting mine as she pushed the stacks of currency toward me.

I swung the empty backpack to the front, ensuring it remained unseen beneath the teller's counter. "Great," I responded, swiftly sweeping the notes into the bag, each movement deliberate yet fraught with a sense of urgency.

"Good luck with your car," the cashier said, her smile genuine, unaware of the web of lies that enveloped her simple farewell.

As I fumbled with the backpack's zipper, the bag squirmed awkwardly, betraying the hasty concealment of my gains. "Thanks," I replied, the word hollow as I feigned enthusiasm. "I'm sure it'll be awesome!" The words tasted bitter, a reminder of the mask I was forced to maintain.

Cringing at my continued charade, I acknowledged the necessity of my performance. Each word, each fabricated detail, was a shield against suspicion, a vital component of the precarious path I had chosen to tread.

The thrill of the successful withdrawal painted a wild grin across my face as I exited the bank, the glass door closing silently behind me. The sense of victory was palpable, a momentary high that made me feel invincible. Well, that went as smooth as I could have hoped for, I mused, allowing myself a brief moment of self-congratulation.

However, the outside world, with its bustling streets and indifferent passersby, quickly reminded me of the reality I faced. As I looked both ways before crossing the road, my eyes inadvertently caught the bank's ATM in my peripheral vision. It stood there, like a beacon of temptation, whispering the possibility of more.

The backpack, now heavy with the weight of cash, seemed to echo my thoughts. Just a little more wouldn't hurt, would it? The question lingered in my mind, a seductive whisper urging me to push my luck further.

I felt a twinge of guilt at the thought, aware of my growing greed. Yet, as I contemplated my next move, the gravity of my situation weighed heavily on me. The spectre of the police, and the even more menacing thought of whoever had killed Joel, loomed over me. It wasn't just about greed; it was about survival.

With a sense of resigned determination, I approached the ATM, Jamie's savings card in hand. It felt like a betrayal, using Jamie's card, yet I rationalised the action as a necessary evil. The machine whirred to life as I inserted the card, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and trepidation.

As the machine dispensed the maximum daily amount, I couldn't help but feel a surge of triumph mixed with a pang of remorse. I quickly stashed the additional cash and Jamie's card back into my wallet, a silent apology hanging in the air.

Another few thousand all sorted, I reassured myself, trying to stifle the lingering doubts clouding my mind. As I crossed the road and returned to the safety of my car, the weight of the backpack felt heavier. The euphoria of the moment was fading, replaced by the sobering realisation of the risks I was taking, and the consequences that lay ahead.

Arriving home, the familiarity of the surroundings did little to quell the tumultuous mix of adrenaline and anxiety churning within me. My actions felt mechanical, driven by a purpose that overshadowed any sense of accomplishment. I moved with a deliberate focus toward the bedroom, where the security of my plan awaited.

The wardrobe door, with its familiar wooden façade, emitted a loud scrape against the rail, a jarring soundtrack to my heightened nerves. I stretched on my tiptoes, reaching for the key that lay precariously near the edge of the top shelf. The absence of Jamie's clothes, once a makeshift camouflage, struck a chord of melancholy within me, reminding me of the changes unfolding in my life.

With the key in hand, I knelt beside the wardrobe, the weight of the green backpack a constant reminder of the successful transactions. Peeling back the corner of the carpet to reveal the hidden metal lid felt like delving into a world far removed from the one outside my window. The safe, a small trove of clandestine items, now awaited its latest addition.

The key turned smoothly in the lock, the heavy lid yielding to reveal the cache of wallets, passports, keys, and phones—a collection of secrets and missing identities. The cramped space inside the safe mirrored the constriction I felt in my chest, a physical manifestation of the constraints closing in around me.

Unzipping the backpack, I let the day's spoils spill out onto the floor, the sight and sound of the cascading notes oddly surreal. My heart raced as I grasped the money, an amount I had never imagined holding in such a raw, tangible form. Bringing the notes to my nose, I inhaled, the scent sharp and unmistakably that of currency—a reminder of the materiality of my actions.

As I chuckled at the absurdity of my actions, the notes' familiar smell grounding me momentarily, I began methodically stacking them into the safe. Each bill felt like a piece of a larger puzzle, a step in a plan that was as daunting as it was necessary. The ritual of arranging the money, though mundane, was tinged with a sense of the surreal, strikingly different to the ordinary life I once knew.