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2005.
Detroit, Michigan.

Tim Jensen's worst habit, anyone who knew him would say, was categorization. Anyone who walked into the gas station downtown where he worked as a manager was, with one glance, instantly put into one of four categories: junkie, gangbanger, hooker, or fish out of water. The nervous man who had entered moments before was a fish out of water, sweating bullets as he approached the counter.

His initial conclusion had been junkie, as the man's anxious, twitchy demeanor had read as looking for a fix, but his mind had been instantly changed upon further inspection of his customer. There was an unsettling cocktail of fear, panic, and desperation visible in his eyes, and an opened flip-phone dangled limply in his grip. The lazy Sunday air within the station had been shattered by the newcomer's arrival, and beneath the counter Tim wrapped one hand around the grip of a concealed shotgun. Something was off.

"T-Tim Jensen?" The man asked in a shaky voice, chilling the former's blood.
"That, uh...That depends on who's asking."
The phone was thrust into his face. "It's for you."
Tim looked uncertainly at the device, and then the man, before snatching it and raising the speaker to his ear. "...Hello?"

"There's a sniper on the roof of the building across the street. Don't look at him, keep your eyes on the man directly in front of you." The voice on the other end of the line was cold and menacing, and stopped Tim's breath in his lungs.
"So who is he? This guy in front of me, I mean."
"It's not him who's important. The girl I currently have at gunpoint is the important one...And your actions will serve as the deciding factor in her survival."
"Please..." Tears now freely flowed down the cheeks of the man across from Tim. "Please, you have to help her...You have to save my baby..."

On the phone, the click of a pistol's hammer and soft, muffled whimpering preceded the voice's next words. "What you're going to do now, Mr. Jensen, if you wish to save the life of this man's daughter, is deliver the register's contents into his custody and allow him to leave with them."
Tim shot a momentary glance down at the counter, then returned his gaze to his tearful customer. "And if I don't?"
"Then Mr. Nine Millimeter will take a little off the top, and my sharpshooter'll down the two of you before you can so much as blink."
Tim's breathing had turned hoarse and ragged, his heart rate growing more and more rapid in increasing denial that such a choice was in his hands.
"You're at a fork in the road, Mr. Jensen. What's more important to you...Your livelihood, or the life of a girl you've never even seen before?"
Tim cast another glance at the register, then the hand resting on the shotgun moved slowly up to the register and pushed the eject button. His eyes returned to the other man, and he gave a slight nod towards the money.
"Take it." he whispered. "Go save your daughter."
With eyes wet from thanks and joy, the man stepped behind the counter and collected the cash into a brown paper bag, waving Tim off as he tried to return the cell phone.
"He told me to let you keep it."

Clutching the money tightly to his chest, the man began to back away slowly from the counter, while the phone squawked in Tim's hand.
"After he leaves, wait thirty seconds and then walk out onto the street."
In interminable silence the time ticked by, and faster than he thought he could move Tim dashed out onto the street.
"And what exactly am I doing out here?"
"Realizing how thoroughly you've just been played."
"What do you mean?"
The truth dawned on Tim like a cresting wave.
"...There's no sharpshooter on the roof, is there?"
"Nor is there a captive little girl. I'm sure you can guess who the man who collected the money was, and he'll be long gone before you realize this is a recording."
In frustration and anger, the phone was hurled down against the concrete.
"Bastard..."