Hammarsdale Junction Mall is a 15-minute walk down the road from Xola’s house. That 15 minutes feels like an hour to him as he walks clutching his unlicensed Norinco pistol inside the pocket of his black Nike hoodie. The hood is tied to cover his mouth and he’s wearing a gray Diesel cap so low over his eyes that he can’t see the blue sky above. He stops between cars at the mall’s parking to tuck the Norinco under his belt. Assuming that a dentist will cost more than the R200 he has, he goes to a general practitioner instead, Dr. Khan.

“What can I help you with, my love?” asks the receptionist, an old Zulu lady with a warm, loving smile.

“I want to remove a tooth,” Xola points at the left side of his face.

“Ow, I thought you were here to rob us, covering your face like that.” She chuckles at her own joke, pulls out a blank blue card, and starts writing the date. “It’s gonna be R450. What’s your name?”

“R450?” asks Xola in disbelief.

“You think that’s a lot?” says the receptionist with her smile. “Go next door and tell me what you think of their prices.”

“Uhm…” Xola pulls out the R200 to tell her it’s all he has.

“You pay afterwards,” she hovers her pen over the card. “Name?”

Xola, desperate to get rid of the pain, takes the opportunity being given to him. “Xolani Zikode.” He says the name he made up when he came to hiding. His date of birth and ID number are fake too.

“I can’t remove it today, it’s infected and swollen,” says Dr. Khan after examining Xola. He’s a grey-bearded Indian man who looks extremely exhausted. “I’ll give you antibiotics and something for the pain.”

“And I pay full price?”

“Yes,” says Dr. Khan, as if it’s obvious. “I charge one price, regardless if you’re more sick or less sick. It’s good price too compared to my neighbour.”

Xola nods.

“You want injection for the pain? The tooth looks bad, I’m sure it hurts a lot.”

“Please.”

Dr. Khan injects Xola, gives him pills to drink immediately and more to take home. “You come back in five days,” he says. “For now, leave payment at the receptionist and go rest.”

Xola casually walks out of the doctor’s room, paces past the receptionist and sprints towards the mall’s exit. Hearing the receptionist and a security guard scream for people to stop him quickens both his feet and his heartbeat. His hand itches to pull out the Norinco but he holds back, afraid of making this a bigger crime than it is.

“Stop before I shoot you, you bastard!” Xola hears the security guard say.

Knowing that mall security guards normally don’t carry guns doesn’t stop the threat from heating up Xola’s bullet scars and making them feel fresh again. He swiftly pulls out his Norinco and looks behind to confirm the security guard is unarmed. Running at full speed and not looking where he’s going, he accidentally collides with a cash-in-transit guard who is turning into the mall’s entrance.

Tell us: What do you think will happen next?