"Scan my things and leave them." The blade flashed under the market lights. "Please, sir, don't—" the cashier's voice shook. Hands tight around the handle, the man leaned over the counter. He smelled of cheap cigarettes and winter. He pointed the knife at me after the cashier froze. "Stay out of it," he snarled. I did not move. My feet felt glued to the linoleum. My palms were sweating on the cart. The voice in my head was the old one—the dream I'd had for nine years. A shadow in a hallway, a blade, a demand, and the sound of someone breaking everything quiet. "Walk away," a new voice said. Everyone turned. He was dressed in a black coat that swallowed the fluorescent light. He moved like he expected a path to open for him. His hand went to the man's wrist and took the blade in a motion that looked slow and effortless. "Leave her," he said. The robber laughed and pulled back. "You got a problem, rich boy?" "I said, leave her." He tightened his fingers. The knife cut the robber's palm. Red came quick and clean. The man cursed, dropped the blade, and grabbed at his hand. Blood spread over his knuckles. He stumbled backward. The cashier grabbed a towel from behind the register and held it to the man's wound as if the bandage would fix the embarrassment. "Call security," someone shouted. "Call the police," another voice said. "No