Tillson had placed two items in front of the teller: a cloth bag and a note. 

Her badge read 'Frances'.  Old fashioned, he remembered thinking at the time.  She couldn't have been over twenty if a day.

She seemed to take the contents of the note with a great deal of brave restraint.  Or perhaps, he thought, youthful recklessness.

"You're robbing me?" She said.  He frowned slightly; it was a curious thing to say.  He wasn't robbing her; there were four other employees at their counters.  She just happened to be the one who called, "Next."

Four employees and a security guard by the door.  The same guard Frances was glancing over at now, weighing up her options, no doubt.  What would she have to lose?  She must have already summed Tillson up and realised he wasn't carrying a weapon.  He certainly didn't look threatening.  What, with his white turtleneck and thin-framed glasses? He would seem more at ease holding a Chardonnay than a gun or a syringe of pig's blood.

She recovered quickly, this one, he thought.  And that is exactly what'll get her killed.

"Serious?" She asked, out of curiosity more than anything.

Tillson gave a restrained nod, then spoke with what he hoped was a low confidence. "Please do as the note says, Frances."

She appeared to grow bolder at the sound of her name.  Her eyes flicked again to the piece of paper on the counter between them.  She said, "Twelve hundred and forty-five dollars.  Exactly."

"Not a dollar more," he replied.

"Seems very precise."

"A life depends on it being that precise.  Now, if you don't mind."

Something in her expression changed; perhaps she was upset he wasn't willing to satisfy her morbid curiosity, provide her otherwise routine day with a story to take home to her boyfriend this evening.

Her boyfriend's name will be Ted, no doubt.  Or Brad.  Frances and Brad, who works in the mines.  They all seem to 'work in the mines,' don't they? Then come home to their lounges and watch FOX Sports while their Frances' or Sharon's curl up beside them with their Women's Weekly's and talk about 'this guy came in today and was such a weirdo.'  They don't have real worries, like a wife or daughter gone missing.  Missing.  Like that's a thing.  Someone knows exactly where they are.  

And right now, Frances has no idea how close she was to never seeing her Brad again.

Tillson saw her glance over at the guard again.  Did one of her hands move closer to the counter's edge?

He mouthed the word, no.

There was a desperation in his eyes that made her hesitate.

"Look," she said.  "You should just leave now."  She folded the note and slid it back to him.

Tillson didn't move, didn't get angry.  Instead, he slid the note back to her.

"The cameras will be picking all of this up, sir," a slight pleading note crept into her voice.  "You should go, or I'm going to call our friend over there."

He leaned in closer.  "If I walk out of here without exactly that amount I will die."

Frances stopped, thrown for a moment.

That's when Tillson took a pinch of his turtleneck shirt (down low, so as not to attract attention) and pulled down.

Frances saw the metal collar locked around his throat.  

Tillson registered her reaction and restored the turtleneck to its original position.  "I don't know when it's set to go off.  I don't know how powerful it is.  It could simply pop my head from my neck, or it could wipe out everyone in this building."

The bank teller was sitting straight in her chair now, her mouth agape.

"Or it might do nothing.  The people who put it on me didn't bother to tell me."

Frances, weighing up her options, quickly arrived at the conclusion that this was one bluff that did not need calling.  

Tillson counted the notes along with her and watched as she calmly slid them into the bag.

Sick mother? She wondered. Wife? Child needing an operation he can't afford?  What costs exactly twelve hundred and forty-five dollars?

"Anything else I can do for you today, sir?" She levelled her gaze at him, trying to recover her wavering confidence and send him her best 'this joke has gotten old' vibe.

"Apparently, there will be a car waiting for me outside," he said.  "You are welcome to call the guard or the police the minute I leave.  It's okay."  He offered a weak smile, "I hope I haven't upset you too badly."

With that, Tillson took the bag and the note and turned to leave.  He stopped and gave her one last look.  Frances saw nothing but dread behind his thin-framed glasses.  "I'm sorry," he said.

She watched as he left the building with the money.  For some reason, she took her time calling the guard over.  By then her customer would be long gone, and he can save his dying son; get him the life-saving surgery he can now afford.  

It turned out the perfect amount of time for Tillson to make his getaway.  He pulled over a mile from the airport car park to remove the homemade collar from around his throat.  Didn't matter how much he used it, it always seemed to pinch him.  The first time he used it, it drew blood.