I had just made it to my window seat at Starbucks when the first police car arrived. A second police car pulled up about 20 seconds later.

I was really sweating now, and it had nothing to do with the mouthful of hot foam and espresso I had just swallowed. My stomach churned no longer out of hunger, but out of fear of my imminent arrest. The Davey’s bag had been placed on the small counter that ran along the window. I hadn’t even looked inside it, and thought it was time.

I pulled out what was left of the #12 and placed it on the counter. The thought of eating was now repugnant. I did a quick once over to make sure no one was watching me, which, in hindsight was ridiculous because no one ever sees me. I opened the bag and peered in, sliding the money around slightly to get a good handle on how much I had.

It looked like it was around $2,000, which, I could be wrong, I think puts me in for a felony. When I was home on Long Island visiting my parents I would watch a lot of cable, trying to absorb what I could because I couldn’t afford it in my place. Now, thanks to that, the theme song from the HBO series Oz blared in my head.

I would not do well in prison.

Although, maybe my power would keep me safe in my cell, the yard, and, most important, the showers. Still, I was not anxious to find out.

Right now they were probably looking at the surveillance tape and going through back records. Within the hour there would be a massive manhunt for me. By tonight, I’d be in a holding cell, unable to make bail.

Beads of sweat dripped down my neck, and I felt I would throw up into my Davey’s/stolen loot bag. That’d be perfect — even if I got away with it I couldn’t touch the money.

I needed fresh air, so I tossed the #12 back into the bag — didn’t want to leave evidence behind — and walked away from my cappuccino and back into the street.

I couldn’t take not knowing. If my power had worked, I could waltz right in there and no one would bat an eyelash at me. If my power failed, then they were already after me and it was only a matter of time. I had to know.

So, as calmly as I could, I walked back into the bank.

It was surprisingly quiet in there. The other tellers were still helping customers. Vivian was out in front, sitting at one of the loan officers’ desks, telling her tale to two policemen. Another policeman was behind the counter, looking at Vivian’s work area. I assumed there was a fourth officer, believing that they traveled in pairs, but I didn’t see him. I didn’t see the bank guard either, so perhaps they were scanning the security tapes.

Mrs. Winters, the bank manager and the person undoubtedly responsible for keeping things running, stood next to the line of customers and answered their questions. Mrs. Winters was a big woman — I had her at 6-foot 4 inches and about 260 pounds. I didn’t she where she was during my heist, but I probably should have taken note because if she had tried to stop me, I would’ve been stopped.

But here I was, at the scene of the crime, and no one even glanced my way.

I made my over toward Vivian and the officers. A brazen move to be sure, but I was feeling better since walking into the bank, and now wanted to be absolutely sure. The conversation I heard made my day:

Policeman: “So you can’t recall anything? How about his height? Was he tall? Short?

Vivian: “Average.”

Policeman: “Was he black or white?”

Vivian (trying really hard to remember): “I’m not sure. White?”

Policeman: “You tell me.”

Vivian (trying to sell it, but not succeeding): “Yeah, most likely white.”

Policeman: “Was he wearing a mask?”

Vivian (quickly and confidently): “No! (softer) I don’t think he was.”

Policeman (after emitting a long sight): “Skin tone?”

Vivian: “Average.”

Policeman: “Hair color?”

Vivian: “Maybe brown? It’s hard to remember.”

Policeman (not expecting much): “Fat or thin?”

Vivian: “Average.”

Now, in Vivian’s defense, she’s right. I’m average. Amazingly average. Almost preternaturally so. That’s what fuels my power, so she’s not wrong.

I caught the second policeman staring at her lazy eye.

I had heard all I needed to hear. I decided to get back on line and cash my checks, but not complain about the bank fees. I was feeling cocky, but still didn’t want to push it. Unfortunately, as I headed toward the back of the line I heard Vivian’s phlegmy voice shriek:

“That’s my lunch! That’s the guy!”

I turned slowly, so hoping that she was pointing at some other poor slob who just happened to walk in with a lunch from Davey’s, but no such luck — she was pointing at me and the second policeman had pulled himself away from Vivian’s eye and was walking toward me.

So I was still completely forgettable, but the lunch had given me away. I told you the #12 was good.

The next bit is a little vague to me. I remember being grabbed and cuffed. The policeman was speaking to me, but the only sound in my ears was my heart pounding. I think I may even have blacked out for a few minutes.

I’ll pick it up at where I came to at the police station.