A scream fills the air. The thirteen-year-old boy and his older brother, both talking quietly about school and standing near the back of the line, look up in surprise as the bank doors open and four masked men, clothed in black, stride in with their guns at the ready.
The two brothers tense. The older one is tall and muscular; he has curly, dark brown hair. The younger boy is thin, short, and delicate-looking; his hair is a very light blond, almost white. But their faces make it obvious that they are related. It is the dark, piercing eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the solid chin.
"Nobody move!" one of the men yells to the panicking crowd.
He and another stay behind near the entryway, while the others make their way to the service desks. One of the bank employees, a young lady, hovers her hand over the telephone for an instant. But then she drops her hand noiselessly onto the desk.
One of the thieves by the door gestures with the gun in his hand. "Empty it out now."
The petrified tellers hasten to obey the order. However, a change is coming over the young man, who now finds that he and his brother are behind the spokesperson. It is apparent from his face that he feels he must do something to stop the crime. His hands clench into fists.
Suddenly, without giving the criminals any warning, he jumps the leader, bringing him to the ground. The gun clatters to the tile floor, and the teenager grabs at it in vain with his free hand, but the gangster retrieves it before he does. The older man is stronger, and succeeds in shoving the teenager off himself and getting back up to his feet. But the teenager scrambles up as well, and while the man recovers himself, he makes another desperate attempt to gain control of the gun, grabbing it and trying to wrest it away from the other's grip.
A shot rings out. The other man by the door has fired in reaction to the trouble his friend is having. Gasping, the teenager feels his strength slipping away, and his hold on the weapon loosens. It is lost completely, and he falls heavily to the floor with a choked cry. His younger brother screams.
"Hurry that up!" the tellers are ordered. Swiftly they finish, and the stolen money is swept into a couple of sacks by the henchmen. The four rush to make their exit. Someone calls the police.
The thirteen-year-old is already at his brother's side. His breath comes quick and fast as he tries to stop his brother's bleeding with his jacket. His older brother opens his eyes, and looks at him. The boy's eyes are flooding with tears, but he stares back.
"Be strong, Conner," his brother gasps out. A spasm of pain goes through him, and he goes limp after a moment of rigidity. Conner blinks rapidly, kneeling frozen in shock.
"Ricky?" he chokes.
He feels a hand on his shoulder, and spins around in panic. But it's just a paramedic.
"Hey, kid. Let me get to the victim," she tells him gently, smiling reassuringly. Dazed, Conner moves aside, and watches as she checks on his older brother. Her face falls after only a few moments of medical procedure. "Sorry. He's gone."
Conner stands there in a state of intense shock as his brother is lifted onto a stretcher and carried out the door into an ambulance. His jacket falls off, and drops to the floor near the door. Conner stares at the blue jacket. Part of it has turned purple.
He has stopped crying, overawed by a dim feeling of unreality. This is all a nightmare. He wants desperately to wake up. This isn't real life. These things don't happen. They shouldn't happen. His breath comes quicker and quicker until it sounds like he's running a marathon.
"Kid." It's the paramedic again, and this time she's looking at him and not his brother. "Are you hurt, too? What's your name? He's your brother, right? Where do you live? Come on; you can ride to the hospital with your brother."
He doesn't move or reply. Carefully the paramedic checks him over; but he looks fine. However, the action seems to wake him up, and he murmurs his brother's name. "Ricky."
"Ricky? Your name is Ricky?"
He shakes his head. The paramedic notices in alarm that his very light-colored skin is starting to turn bluish.
"Come on," she orders. "Come to the ambulance."
Conner makes no reaction. She takes his hand, and checks his pulse. But it is too faint to be felt.
"Let's go," she says again, urgently.
The next moment, the paramedic calls loudly for help as the thirteen-year-old collapses in severe shock.