Page 51 of Kings of Sherwood

And that led Guy right to our door.

Not to mention—ultimately—led the Mustang to its fiery end.

I guess now I’m seeing how it’s properly done.

Our first stop is MegaValu, where we exchange stacks and stacks of cash that apparently had been hidden inside the pool table this whole time for a series of prepaid debit cards, all in a bunch of transactions, all with me conveniently standing at just the right angle to block the view from the security camera. With that done, I sit wedged up front with a shoebox full of the things as we head towards town. The windows are down and Will’s got one hand on the wheel, sunglasses on, breeze in his hair, like this is just another Tuesday.

Which, for him, I guess it is.

We turn off the road towards Nottingham, the east side. There’s a small campus on our left, a flat, broad brick buildingalmost like an elementary school without a playground. Will pulls into the cracked parking lot and kills the engine by a faded sign that says NOTTINGHAM VA HOSPITAL – WE PUT VETERANS FIRST.

“This one’s fun,” he says, flashing me a grin. “You ever rig a vending machine?”

“Not since middle school,” I deadpan.

“C’mon.”

I follow him to the lobby, which he strides in like he owns the place, and to a corner of a fluorescent-lit waiting room where an ancient, rickety-looking vending machine hums diligently. It’s so old, I’m surprised it’s not selling Tab and Sanka.

Will flashes me a look and mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “Stand still and look pretty, okay?”

I nod—there’s no one around except a distant receptionist who can barely see over the edge of her desk—as Will slides in a dollar bill and punches the number for a packet of peanut M&Ms. As the metal spiral chugs around, freeing his candy, he quickly presses a bunch of keys all at once, in a quick pattern, and suddenly the whole keypad flashes and there’s a rustyclunksound in the front latch of the door.

“Bingo.”

He fishes in his jacket pocket for some of the debit cards, and, with a smooth flick of his wrist, pries open the unlocked door, just enough to snake his hand in, and slips one behind each and every item. Before I even register how fast he’s moving, he’s out, shut the door, and tapping a reset code on the keypad—old habit, from the looks of it—then bends down for his candy like nothing out of the ordinary.

“M&M?” he says, offering it to me like a trophy.

I shut my mouth, which I realize had fallen open.

“I know,” Will says. “I’m impressive.”

“Shut up,” I say, but take the candy.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” He grins. “Welcome to the redistribution economy.”

Next stop is a Little Free Library outside a daycare center: painted with chunky sunflowers on the sides, chipped and sun-faded, full of picture books with crayon marks and cracked spines.

Will opens the front and pulls a few books at random—Brown Bear, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, a board book about skulls. He quickly slides a card into each one, then pauses before putting them back.

“What?” I ask. He ignores me, just pulls a fountain pen out of his jacket and whips open the covers again to scribble something down. I read over his shoulder:

GIVE THIS TO YOUR MOMMY AND/OR DADDY, with a series of arrows pointing to the debit card.

“Seriously?”

He looks up at me, eyebrows raised. “What? Kids are stupid. They might throw it out or trade it for a Pokémon card or something.”

Back in the car, I question his thinking—out of curiosity, not second-guessing. “So the idea is, just...leave it where people are likely to find it?”

“More or less,” he says. “But also in a place where people whoneedit are likely to be, you know? These just happen to be just a few of my favorites. Here.”

He rounds the corner and parks us by a Discount Drugs. We walk in casually, like any two people buying allergy meds or condoms or whatever. No one looks twice.

Will tips his head to the right, and I follow as he makes a detour toward the BABY NEEDS aisle. I snort.

“Now there’s a sight,” I say.

---