“Name?”
That’s all he had to remember. A name. A password that would let him walk out of this rain-slicked alley alive.
“Need it in five… four…” the nameless, faceless voice continued.
An ‘or else’ was coming, but he didn’t want to hang around for it. He just wanted the package – nothing more.
But he struggled. The gun pressed to the back of his head didn’t help.
“Three… two…”
Couldn’t it be simple? Like John or Mary? Instead, they picked something long on consonants, short on logic.
It was right there though. Right on the tip of his tongue.
“One.”
The Weekday One Hundred 