Nutella

It starts with me in the lobby of a bank in Chicago.

I don’t know how I got here, or why I’m wearing a t-shirt and a jacket only. It’s twenty-five degrees, according to a school ticker that also advertises that seventy-nine percent of its students rated excellent on the ISAT. I'm standing between two glass paneled doors. One leads to the cold, one leads to the interior of the bank. I'm looking ominous near a pair of automated teller machines. I'm fairly sure I'm waiting for someone.