The joke landed badly

The first useful thing I felt today was anger, because the knee was faster than me. Being clipped by a forklift and then crawling across the pavement while grown men fought over the case made me feel impressively ridiculous. I probably laughed about it eventually. I always do. A laugh is easier than admitting that fear made my body useless for a few crucial seconds.

The selfie was a bad lie. I looked almost pleased with myself, as if being hurt in front of officers was part of the plan. I wanted to delete it, then kept it because my public face had become too polished to trust. The private version is worse: I am terrified that everyone involved tonight will remember me as the man who was in the way.

Rale has beaten me again, but narrowly enough that my pride can still stretch the discovery across the whole room. That is a miserable kind of comfort.

The worse thought is that I may not have found the trap alone. Someone knew the warehouse, the timing, and where I would push hardest. I keep turning that over until my knee aches from being tense rather than injured. I want a face, a careless phrase, anything solid enough to stop the question chewing at me.

I am keeping the score honestly now: Rale gets one, I get the bullion in official hands, and the man with the plate gets away. Really, that is not a win. It is three people escaping with different pieces.