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Weekly Contest #198
A pair of giant rusty bolt cutters clamp around the cam lock. Mr. Alan, a stern, starched man, like a shorter version of Mr. Smith from The Matrix, squeezes his forearms together. The bolt cutters bite down, breaching my security system. Clink. I would have given the code if he'd asked. Spools of colorful plarn overflow a wooden case sitting at the bottom of my locker. "Mr. Alan. I swear I didn't. They--" I point at Monique, Danna, and Gina, "they told me to grab take it. They told me to stuff it in--" "That's enough." His scowl is cold and ...
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