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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 ste...
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