Ratter ducked out of the rain. He joined Sam under the eaves of Dog Eared Books on Valencia. The place closed at ten, ages ago, but the entry still smelled like old books. Sam nodded at Ratter and took a sip from his corner store coffee. None of the fancier places were open.

"Got your text. What's so important we meet in the middle of the night?" Sam asked.

Ratter rubbed his hands together and gnawed on a toothpick. The thin mustache over his pale lips twitched. "A sure cinch," he replied.

Sam took a breath, counted to three. "A what?"


"A sure cinch. An easy score. Loading truck is parked near the de Young."

"A sure thing? Think that's what you mean."

Ratter wore a black trench coat with the collar turned up. His curly brown hair hung in wet spirals to his shoulders. On his feet were a pair of glossy black Doc Martens. Not good for running, but handy for violence, particularly if they were steel toed. Sam himself wore a black sweatshirt under a large green flannel with a pair of gray corduroys and black slip-on canvas shoes. Good for comfort. Not much else.

"It's a cinch though, a cinch and a sure thing," Ratter said. "A sure cinch."

"Sure it is."

"Got a car coming. It's unguarded for the next hour according to my guy on the inside. And get this, Sam. There's nothing but a single busted security camera back there!"

Sam sipped his coffee and pondered the rain. The neon closed sign reflected in the puddle at his feet. "What's in the loading truck?"

"Coins. Lots of rare coins. Know a guy who works there. He said something about error pennies, copper pennies, Morgan silver dollars, worth a mint I'm told. Just sitting there until one a.m.. Gonna put them on exhibit or something."

"What happens at one?"

"That's when the crew comes back from break, I guess. I don't know."

"Lot of security in the Park," Sam said. "Got a reliable ride?" Sam’s own vehicle, a beat up old Volvo, was in the shop.

"I need your help moving the stuff. That's it. You'll get a cut of the sales when I finagle a buyer."

Sam drank. Coffee burned as it went down. Ratter pulled his phone from his back pocket. Water dripped from his nose. "Ride's here."

A white Chrysler Pacifica hummed into view. Rain dribbled off the minivan as it pulled to the corner. Weather didn't seem to affect the LiDAR or the cameras mounted on the roof.

Sam stepped back, fading into the shadows. His back pressed against the cold door of the bookstore.

"I call shotgun," said Ratter.

"The fuck is this? You called a Waymo?"

"Hell yeah," Ratter said. "Ever been in one?"

"These things keep a record, Ratter. You're out of your goddamn mind."

"What are you, a caveman? Nothing to worry about! You'll see!" Ratter made his way to the silent vehicle. "Got the minivan so there's more room for the loot."

"Goodnight, Ratter." Sam started walking toward Guerrero Street. Like Ratter he turned his collar up to obscure his face.

Ratter shouted after him. "C’mon, brother. You'll regret this! You'll see, Sam!"

Sam winced at the use of his name so close to the autonomous transport. The Waymo swallowed its human and disappeared into the drizzling night.

"Regret it already," Sam said. “Even the coffee’s stupid.”

A week later, when the Chronicle reported no new leads in the coin heist and Sam found himself short on rent, he wished he’d had more faith.

​© 2026 Patrick Whitehurst

About the author: 
Patrick Whitehurst writes both fiction and non-fiction. As a former reporter, he developed a love for writing short and fast, which he uses to his advantage in the flash fiction realm. Find him online at patrickwhitehurst.com.

​Mina stood on the bridge, looking down at the river. Mist swirled around the banks, making it seem like the shore was moving rather than the water. During the day, it was muddy brown, but now, it was blacker than the night. It reminded her of a curtain, pulled after the final act of a play. “All the world’s a stage,” she whispered. She loved the sound of that line when she was a little girl.

The whoop of a siren made her jump. She turned on her heel, pressing her back against the railing. The police cruiser’s passenger window rolled down. “Everything okay, ma’am?”

The officer’s face was blank as his eyes scanned her, trying to fit her into some familiar box.

A light drizzle started to fall as she said, “Yes, I’m fine, thanks,” and began walking towards the near side of the bridge.

“You should get home,” the officer called after her. “It’s a nasty night.” He rolled up the window but the cruiser didn’t start moving until Mina was safely off the bridge.

Home, Mina thought bitterly. “Home” was a town in Vermont called Sharon, not the three paint-peeling rooms where she slept.

At the next corner, Mina pulled the envelope from her coat pocket and dropped it into the mailbox. It was so old-fashioned it seemed almost foreign. Writing so much by hand was awkward and left her fingers cramped, but an email or a text was too impersonal for something like this. Cramps were nothing, though. She put up with a lot worse over the last four years—the drunken rages, the slaps that became beatings. Besides, she had to let Mom and Dad know about Ben, the grandson they’d never even met. When everything was said and done, he would end up with them. She walked on through the night.

The next cross-street was busy, even close to midnight. Cars and trucks and the occasional bus zoomed past, sending up dirty spray that splashed the sidewalk. The movement, the red and gold lights through the rain and mist, was mesmerizing. She stood a moment watching, wondering how many cars there were in the city. Unlike her, they were all going somewhere, every day, every hour.

“Miss,” a soft voice near her elbow said. “It isn’t safe to stand so close to the edge.”

Mina looked down and met the eyes of an elderly woman not even five feet tall. She reminded Mina of her great-grandmother, who was so tiny Mina called her “Little Grammy” when she was a child. A lump formed in her throat and her eyes burned.

“You’re right. Thank you, ma’am,” she said. At the light, the two of them crossed together.

The drugstore on the next block was still open. Mina blinked as she passed into the brightly lit store. “Can I help you?” a clerk called out.

Mina went to the counter and asked for the strongest sleeping pills they sold without a prescription. “And a bottle of your cheapest vodka, please.”

The man gave her a strange look for a moment, but only asked to see her ID. She presented it, paid, and put both box and bottle into her pocket.

“Have a nice night, ma’am,” the clerk told her, but got no answer.

Mina unlocked the faded green door of her building, and climbed creaking stairs to the third floor. Inside the apartment, she shed her coat, and went into the kitchen. Opening the box of pills, she popped each one from its foil pocket, making a pile on the scarred plastic table. With the base of the vodka bottle, she ground the pile into a fine powder. She cracked the seal on the bottle, took a deep swig, set it down. Scooping the white powder into her hand, she slowly poured it into the neck of the bottle, careful not to lose any, then recapped and shook it. The liquid was a little cloudy now, but it didn’t matter.

Mina moved through the living room quietly, careful not to disturb the little boy asleep on the sofa. In the bedroom, she shook the sleeping man awake. “Here, I got your bottle, just like you asked.”

© 2026 Brandon Barrows

About the author: 
Brandon Barrows is the author of more than a dozen books, his most recent Sinners Ride from 13 Days Publishing. He has also published over one hundred short stories for which he is a Mustang Award winner and a two-time Derringer Award nominee.

​Find more at http://www.brandonbarrowscomics.com