The bank went up in flames. Scattered people running to and fro on the streets, panicked. There are mothers out there flailing their arms, children that are shaking. Men that can make no sense of the horror that has unfolded around them. No peace, no protest. This is an act of hatred, jealousy. I can almost throw up.

The three of them that went in come flying back toward the van as I lower my head and reach within an inch of shedding a tear. Bruta slides open the side door and they shove in bags of cash, storming inside the van and slamming the door behind them.

“Drive!” one of them yells. With their masks on, I cannot tell who is who, which voice is which. Wing up front heeds the call, puts the van in drive while we’re all still a jumbled mess in the van, and zooms off far away from the bank. Outside I can hear people screaming, but I know that I must look down. I cannot look.

A hand rests itself down on my shoulder. I look up in a roar at who it is and it’s John. It’s John, and the expression on his face matches mine.

“We have to get out of here,” he must be telling me through his head. In the back of mine, I tell him I agree, and I think he understands.

There’s police sirens in earshot now; one cop car passes us on the way back to the dojo, not stopping us as they head to the bank that they’ve blown up. The bank we’ve blown up. This is not what I did for my mom. I wanted to join a peaceful protest. John and I, we did. We must get out. Now. And John looks at me again as I think this, and I know he’s thinking the same thing.