Connor woke groggily at the sound of his alarm clock. How he hated that sound. But he wouldn't have to hear it much longer; in five days, school would be out and he would graduate from Isaac Adams High School with the class of 2012. Then, he would get a job and get his own place instead of having to continue to live in Edison Heights. He hit the button marked OFF on the alarm clock and laid in bed for a couple minutes before slowly getting up.
He walked over to his disorganized closet, pulled a dark brown shirt out from the pile of clothes within, sniffed it, decided it smelled alright, and put it on. After repeating this process with his jeans, searching for his shoes, and grabbing his cell phone, he walked out to the living room.
As he passed his mother's room, he heard her announce quietly, "Take out the trash, please."
Connor sighed and mumbled a "whatever" to his mother, but left the trash can where it was. He knew if he didn't, he would be lectured after school, but he didn't feel like going outside this early as he was still half-awake.
After brushing his teeth (he would get a lecture if his toothbrush wasn't wet when she got up, too) and combing his short, black hair, he grabbed a few pop-tarts and took his backpack from its usual place near the door. He then thought for a second that he forgot something, but shrugged. If it was important, he though, I would have remembered.
He rushed out the door, and cursed as the late spring sun hit him in the eyes. He walked down the block, munching a pop-tart with the others in his other hand, when the sprinklers from a nearby lawn hissed to life, soaking him and his meal. He cursed again as he threw his wet pop-tarts into a nearby trash can.
Now hungry, tired, and angry, he trudged slowly to school. He peeked at the clock on his phone. It read 7:55. He would be late if he took his usual route. He closed his eyes and pictured the layout of his neighborhood. If he went straight instead of turning onto the usual street, it just might be the shortcut he needs.
He followed the map planned out in his head. He started smiling at his own genius as he turned onto the next street, but his smile faded when he found out he turned onto a cul-de-sac.
"Oh, shit," he tried to say, but it was cut off by an ear-splitting scream.
He rotated slowly to his left trying to find where the shriek came from. Then, he heard the cry again and found its source: a girl at the end of the street being pushed upon a red car by a muscular man.
He thought about rushing over there-he almost did, in fact-but decided it was best not to. It should sort itself out, he told himself. Things like this usually do.
But, although he wouldn't admit it to himself, when his eyes met the girl's, he saw a whirlpool of so many emotions that made it hurt his heart to turn his head away.
But he kept telling himself, I've had one hell of a morning, as if this were an acceptable excuse.
Gloria got up promptly when her phone vibrated against the desk she left it on so it would only wake her and not her sleeping mother in the next room. She didn't want to lay in bed and go back to sleep, or rather she couldn't. Her father, Russell, was a burly construction worker that was so bad at cooking, he could probably burn water if given the chance. This left it to her or her mother to cook for him in the mornings. Gloria always did it, though, because she knew her mother would like to sleep in just as much as she herself would.
After getting dressed in a sleepy daze, she walked out to the kitchen where her father was reading the paper. She told him a "good morning" as cheerfully as she could manage, but her only reply was an uncheerful grunt.
She walked to the freezer and got the pack of bacon out. She took out five pieces and threw it on a pan resting on the stove before turning the heat to high. She then went back to the freezer to get a box of pancakes, but was interrupted by her mother's fuzzy voice mumbling, "I'll get it, honey." Gloria started to protest, but her mother interrupted her again by reminding her what time it was. 7:40, twenty minuted before school started at Isaac Adams High School.
Gloria walked to the bathroom and looked at her golden hair with a frown. She proceeded to brush it into her usual bob cut that reached down to her shoulder blades. After brushing her teeth, she walked back to the kitchen to get her breakfast.
Once in the kitchen, Gloria realized her parents were nowhere to be found. Her father didn't usually leave this early, but he may have wanted to leave early for whatever reason. Her father was the type of person you don't question when he has a reason for something, so she thought no more of the situation.
She went to the cupboard to get a box of cornflakes when her mother came out of the hall telling her in a hurried voice, "Get going, honey." Her mouth was quivering and her eyes looked red. Gloria knew what this meant and she put the box down on the counter, grabbed her backpack, and rushed out of the house.
Once outside, she walked to the side of the house and called her boyfriend, Harold, for a ride to school.
One ring...then two...then three. She was about to hang up when her boyfriend's voice called through the small speaker, "Hello, pumpkin."
"Hey, Harold. Can you pick me up?" Gloria asked.
"I'm already on my way, babe."
"Oh, thank you," she gasped. She didn't want to be around for too much longer.
A few minutes later, a screech of tires told her that her beloved was here. She ran out to Harold's red Ford, but was stopped when the front door opened.
Gloria's back was turned to him, but she knew who it was and froze like a deer in the headlights.
"Who the hell's this?" Russell asked.
"It's, uh, it's..." Gloria stammered. She turned to her father, found her voice, and said, "He's my boyfriend," stuttering on the last word.
At first, Russell's face didn't change, but then a flash of anger cut across his face like the glint of a knife before it's plunged into someone's heart. Harold and Gloria both saw this and they both broke into a run. Gloria for the car, and Harold for anywhere that wasn't here. He didn't think about getting in the car until he was well away due to the funny way one's mind works under pressure.
Russell caught up with her in big strides and pinned her against the side of the red car. Gloria screamed.
"Boyfriend?! What the hell!" Russell yelled.This caused another scream to erupt from Gloria. She turned her head and saw someone roughly fifty yards away. Her heart jumped not from fear, but from hope. Their eyes met, and she thought desperately, Surely he'll help me. He's got to help me. But he turned his head as if she wasn't there. Her heart jumped again, this time from fear.
She thought, I've had one hell of a morning, as if this explained everything.
Connor turned back the way he came and went the usual route to Isaac Adams, thinking of the girl the whole time. He felt bad for not helping her, but he already had a criminal record (shoplifting) and if he were to try to help her in his current mood, how would it have turned out? He may end up badly injuring the man, or maybe even kill him. Or, even more likely, he would be the one killed by the man. He did look rather strong.
When Connor reached the intersection where he had neglected to go his usual route, he decided he didn't care if he was late for school or if his criminal record got worse and he had to spend a night in juvenile hall. He wanted to make sure the girl was safe.
He bolted back the way he came with a feeling of heroism. He would play the juvenile delinquent who would fend off the muscular antagonist and win the woman. He felt a smile start to tickle the corners of his mouth..
He skidded to a halt at the end of the street where the girl was,only to discover she was no longer there, nor was the muscular antagonist. His stomach did a back flip and his smile did a half somersault. Surely she couldn't have gone too far.
He started to walk around the cul-de-sac. The car was no longer parked where it was. Did the man force her in the car? What would his conscience say if the girl turns up in the newspaper with the headline "GIRL FOUND DEAD IN CAR TRUNK" above? His stomach did another back flip.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of yellow leap over the fence into the orchard. Just a stray cat. There was a lot in this neighborhood, as well as his own.
He continued to walk around, determined to find the girl and at least apologize, but then realized how that would sound. Sorry I ran away when I saw you being beaten by some tough guy, can you forgive me? Connor sighed. What was there to do, then?
It was at least 8:10. School started ten minutes ago and he was already marked tardy. It didn't matter if he got there any later, and he wanted to continue searching for the girl, but he knew he was beaten, so he trudged off to school anyway.
Gloria walked into her bedroom around 8:07 with a headache and a swollen left eye. She turned on the light and flung herself down on the bed. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, hoping this would relieve her headache. It only aggravated it more.
She couldn't imagine going to school in her current situation, but she also couldn't imagine not going to school. She turned on her stomach as if this would help her think.
Then, from the window, "Hey! Gloria!"
Gloria sat up. It sounded like Harold. How could he dare come back to her after he ran off like a rabbit?
"Gloria! I know you're there,"
Gloria called quietly, "Go away, Harold." She almost added, It's your fault, but there are some things you don't bring up in a conversation.
"Come on, honey," he cooed.
She got up angrily and walked to the window. She saw him recoil, probably more from her anger; she usually wasn't an angry person. "Look!" She pointed to her swollen eye. "This is your fault!" she hissed against her better judgement.
"Listen, babe, I'm sorry. I just...forgot something at home. My cell phone."
She laughed. "Do you remember how I got a hold of you? You said you were already on your way here, and I called your cell. Explain that."
Harold blushed. He knew what this meant.
"Who's there?" Russell called from the living room.
Gloria and Harold both turned their heads at the sound of his voice, and both retreated at the sound of him getting up from the living room couch.
When Russell reached her room, Harold was gone, and Gloria was sitting on her bed. She turned her head and said innocently (albeit shakily), "Yes, father?"
Russell screwed up his face in thought, then said, "Shouldn't you be at school?"
"Uhh...Sorry," she replied sheepishly. She got up, passed her father in the doorway, grabbed her backpack, and left.
She was lost. If she went to school, she could say she tripped and her loving father was checking up on her. But, if she did go to school, she didn't think she could take the wary glances the kids gave her.
She decided to go anyway, though. Her grades weren't in perfect condition due to similar incidents and there was only a week of school left. She started to walk down the street, but looked up and saw the boy she saw earlier. She ran quickly to a nearby bush and ducked.
The boy stopped, looked around, and frowned. Gloria waited for him to leave. Instead, the boy started walking the perimeter of the cul-de-sac. Gloria knew that if he expected her to be hiding, which he probably did, then she would be found. Quickly, Gloria grabbed the top of the fence behind her, pulled herself up, and flipped over and into the orchard, her golden hair flapping behind her.
Was he coming back to see if I still needed help? Gloria asked herself, though she knew the answer. Of course he did. He felt sorry for her. Then why did I hide? she asked herself.
Once out of the orchard, she walked right, knowing the boy wouldn't go in this direction; he always turned the other direction onto her street. She still dreaded going to school as she was.
Even as much as she despised going to school now, her thoughts eventually turned to the boy. Soon after, she couldn't keep her mind off him, and she started to cry, her tears cooling her swollen eye before spotting the sidewalk like rain.
Connor arrived at his algebra class around 8:25, and tried to slip into his seat in the back of the class without the teacher knowing. Mrs. Doning was a card short of a full deck, and many of the kids knew it. If someone did manage to do what Connor was attempting now, she would think she made a mistake when taking roll and correct it. However, Mrs. Doning had the proverbial eyes in the back of her head.
She looked at the class' reflection in her thick glasses as she wrote on the whiteboard and saw Connor come through the door.
"Connor, you're late." she announced.
Connor winced. He walked to his chair and flopped down disdainfully. He looked at the whiteboard, saw the complex polynomials written in Mrs. Doning's shaky handwriting, and sunk lower in his seat.
David, sitting to Connor's right, said, "Heh, you almost made it, dude." He smiled his trademark smile: eyes closed, mouth wide open.
"How'd that senile bitch see me?" Connor asked. "Think she can see my reflection in the whiteboard?"
"Doubt it. The thing probably has grime there left from the '90s."
Connor didn't think it had been that long since its last cleaning, but said nothing. He was focused on the girl he saw on his detour from school.
"Dude, what's wrong?" David inquired. "You're totally out of it today."
At first, Connor said nothing, then he said, "On my way to school, I saw this chick and-"
David cut him off with a chuckle. "Dude, shut up," Connor told him. "She...she was being pushed up on a car by some tough guy. I thought it was just..." Connor tried to finish this, but he really didn't know what he thought it was.
"And you just left her there?" David said flatly. "So what? Why should you lose some sleep over-" but he was cut off by Mrs. Doning.
"Quiet back there!" she snapped.
David lowered his voice. "Why should you lose some sleep over some dumb bitch being bullied by her boyfriend?"
Connor almost told him the man was too old to be her boyfriend, but thought of something more constructive. "It's like not reporting a murder to the cops. It makes you feel like it's your fault."
David snorted. "There's a fine line between murder and what you saw."
"But she screamed. Twice." Connor protested.
"The maybe someone called the cops."
This silenced Connor. Maybe someone did. That would make sense. This made him feel a little better.
"Oh, speaking of weird mornings," David said mysteriously, "look what I found this morning." Wary of their elderly teacher, he pulled out a dark blue book from his backpack. "It looks like a diary, but look at this." He rotated the book so its spine was facing away from them. The front and back cover, which seemed to be made of a very durable material, came together to make a sort of shell for the paper. In the middle of this side was a gold lock."
"Woah," Connor said stupidly.
"You want it?" David asked. "I can't pick the lock. I can always do it with any other lock, but this one seems to be made differently." He creased his forehead and frowned.
"Uhh...sure," Connor replied, again, stupidly. He wasn't expecting to receive anything today, especially due to his unfortunate luck recently.
Well, maybe my luck's turning around, he thought as he stowed this in his backpack.
He couldn't have been any more wrong.
Gloria entered Isaac Adams at 8:38, seven minutes before second period. She hurried to her history class and grabbed her homework before her concerned teacher, Mr. Daryus, asked, "Oh, how'd you get that black eye? Are you okay?"
Gloria's face darkened. Ignoring the first question, she said gloomily, "I'm fine."
Mr. Daryus was still curious. "How did you get it?"
"I tripped," she said shyly.
"Would you like to go to the nurse?" he continued.
"I said I'm fine," Gloria replied.
Her teacher finally gave up and said, "Alright."
When the bell rang a minute or so later, she stuffed her work into her backpack and walked out of the classroom before being stopped by Harold halfway to her second period class, P.E.
"Hey, babe, you still mad about earlier?" Harold said. His words said he cared, but his tone said differently. He knew he had lost his chance when he ran off.
Gloria brushed past him as if he wasn't there. Harold, who never learned when to quit, followed her.
"Listen, babe, if I knew you're father was still there, I wouldn't have bugged you."
Gloria rolled her eyes. "I'll say. If you would have known he was there, you would've ran away."
Harold thought about this and said, "You know that's not how I meant it."
"You know it's true, though," Gloria shot back.
They reached the locker rooms and, to try to prevent himself from losing the argument, he blocked the doorway as casually as he could. "Touch?."
She tried pushing past him, but he forcefully pushed back. Hard. Gloria started to feel nervous.
Harold lowered his voice to try to sound more menacing. "Listen here, bitch. Just because your father beats you doesn't mean you can take it out on me." His tone appeared to work, because Gloria froze.
Harold waited a second before moving out of the doorway and heading to the boy's locker room. Gloria watched him leave, unable to move. When the tardy bell rang, it broke her trance and she walked in to the girl's locker room.
- - - - -
Five minutes later, Gloria was in the auxiliary gym with the rest of her class, awaiting instructions from their formidable P.E. teacher, Mr. Galhorn.
"Shoulder stretch, class," Mr. Galhorn commanded.
Gloria was too distracted to participate. She saw Harold talking with two of his friends. They were laughing at something particularly funny because one of them almost fell over. Gloria frowned.
"Gloria!" the teacher snapped.
Gloria shook her head and pulled her left arm over her neck, but she didn't take her eyes off of Harold's group.
"Quad stretch," Mr. Galhorn said, but Gloria didn't hear him. It seemed as if the only noise coming from the gym was Harold and his friends' laughter.
"Gloria! Pay attention!" Mr. Galhorn bellowed.
Gloria shook her head again and obeyed.
- - - - -
The class finished their stretches as Mr. Galhorn announced the day's curriculum: twelve minutes on the track, completing as many laps as you can. The class was not pleased by this news, Gloria included. P.E. wasn't one of her strong points.
As the class walked out to the track that surrounded the football field, Gloria snuck a peek at Harold and his group of friends. They were still laughing with the same behavior as previous. This disturbed Gloria.
The class arrived at the starting line of the track. Gloria chose the first lane because it was quicker going around than the other lanes. Not many students seemed to notice this.
Mr. Galhorn blew the whistle and pressed the START button on his stopwatch. All of the athletic students took off at a sprint. All of them except Harold and his group. They stayed behind her.
Gloria's attention suddenly snapped back to Harold as him and his friends sped up a little. Gloria remained alert.
Harold and his friends remained at her side until the teacher turned her head. Gloria was caught unaware and Harold kicked her in the back of the right knee and sent her falling. She instinctively put her left hand out to break her fall, but this only sent a throb of pain through her arm. Gloria screamed and collapsed.
Mr. Galhorn heard this and went to her aid.
"What happened?" he asked, not sounding the least bit comforting.
"I..." Gloira started, but she thought that if she told what really happened, they would continue pestering her. The best thing to do was lie. "I tripped. I tried to stop my fall with my hand."
"Well, can you still play basketball?" Mr. Galhorn asked stupidly.
"No," was her reply. She was tempted to say, What do you think, dumbass? but restrained herself. She reminded herself that she was mad at Harold, not Mr. Galhorn.
"I'll write you a pass to the nurse's office," Mr. Galhorn told her, but she wasn't listening. She was watching Harold with disgust.
Finally got rid of that damn thing, David thought as Connor took the odd book. If I was caught with that thing... The truth was, he didn't know the consequences, and he didn't want to think about it.
The truth was, the book was stolen.
It happened last summer vacation, when he, his parents, and his friends went to Washington, D.C. His parents were away, and weren't coming back for a while, so David and his friends, Alfred and Oliver decided to get drunk, and that's when the idea came to them.
David woke up and immediately wished he hadn't. His head was beating like a drum and he felt like he was going to puke. But he would try to restrain himself.
What did we do last night? David thought. I remember we thought up something important.
He got out of bed and went to the room Alfred and Oliver were staying. The room was, unsurprisingly, a mess.
Alfred was stretched out on the bed like a cat, and it seemed that the blankets strewn about the floor were his.
"Dude, wake up," David commanded as he gently shook Alfred.
"Mm? Hey, stop. I'm awake, alright?" Alfred groaned. "I was havin' a great-"
"What did we think of doing yesterday?" David interrupted. "Somethin' fun, right? Somethin' about the Museum of Literature?"
The United States of America Museum of Literature, built in 2010 by the NARA, was a cross between a library and a club: only exclusive members could get in to read there. The president was sometimes seen there (surrounded by buff bodyguards, as always) and he had his own private section that required you to type a code on the door to enter. That was their destination.
"Museum? Literature? Sounds boring." As soon as Alfred proclaimed this, his eyes lit up. "Oh, yeah!" He grinned. "Wake up Oliver."
David walked over to Oliver and shook him harder than he did Alfred. Oliver was a heavy sleeper.
"Mmm! Lemme alone," Oliver mumbled.
"Dude! Get up! Remember last night?" David told him.
"Hmm?" Oliver's eyes opened a little. "Oh...yeah." He didn't sound as excited as Alfred.
"What?"
"Just sounds like a bad idea. Stealing a book from the Museum of Literature? First, that's dangerous. Second, our prize is a book. What're we going to do with a book? It's like trying to toilet paper the White House."
"That sounds fun," Alfred chimed in. His smile grew wider.
"What if we find somethin' interesting?" David said, ignoring Alfred's comment.
"Interesting in a library?" Oliver sighed.
"In the president's private area? Remember when we went there last week? I heard the beeps, like it was on a phone." David said.
"And you're saying you can open it?" Oliver said, astonished.
"And you're saying I can't?" David smiled. He picked up the phone and started playing around with the buttons, trying to simulate the sounds. After playing around with it for ten minutes, he announced, "4217."
Alfred looked up. "You sure that's it?"
"Pretty sure," David replied.
"And if it's not? We're screwed," Oliver said bluntly.
"And if it is?" David asked.
"We get a book. Terrific," Oliver grunted,
"Ah, Oliver. Always the pessimist."
"At least you could wait until you're not as hung over. That'd help you remember it." Oliver hated being called a pessimist.
"Yeah, but this is as close as I can get it. I'm sure it's right."
Oliver didn't reply.
"So you in?" David put his hand out. Alfred put his hand on David's.
Oliver couldn't help but grin. He put his hand on Alfred's. "When we going?"
"Soon. But not now. I've got a killer of a headache, and I wanna get this beeping out of my head." David said as he rubbed his temples.
Connor walked into his second period class with a sigh. English was his second least favorite class. He knew he would fail, but he already met his requirements for English. He was just placed in there because he got a D- in English 2, so his teacher said, "It's for your benefit. Not many colleges will accept D- students." Connor then decided who his least favorite teacher was.
"Alright, class, get out your notebooks and correct these sentences," Ms. Morbel said in a tone that said she would rather be elsewhere. She turned on the overhead projector that showed two sentences that contained obvious grammatical errors.
Connor groaned, but got out his composition notebook anyway. He copied down the sentences, but only got that far. His attention span shortened like the burning fuse of a bomb during second period.
He ripped out another peice of paper in his notebook, crumpled it up (the teacher didn't hear; the class was already talking, texting stealthily, or complaining about their work) and threw it directly at the person in front of him, Osbert.
Osbert ignored this. He was used to riddicule.
Connor threw another paper wad, which Osbert continued to ignore. When Connor threw a third paper wad, Osbert turned to Connor. "Can you please stop?"
"Stop what?" Connor asked innocently.
Osbert rolled his eyes and returned to his work.
Connor threw another paper wad lazily.
Osbert tensed up, then turned around. "Stop it," he said more sternly than last.
Connor ignored this and threw one sraight at Osbert's face, which turned red with anger. "I've asked nice. Now, stop."
Connor shrugged. Osbert returned to his work. I suppose I should do the same, Connor thought. But, like last time, his attention span was too short. He threw yet another paper wad at Osbert.
Osbert jumped out of his seat, burning with fury. Osbert may have been the nerd of the class, but he wasn't weak. He turned around and confronted Connor.
"What the hell? I told you to stop!" Osbert yelled as the rest of the class turned to watch.
Connor said innocently, "Stop what?" He smiled.
"You know damn well what!" Osbert bellowed. By now, Ms. Morbel was walking over to Osbert and Connor..
"Stop now!" she commanded. "Stop!"
Now Connor was up as well. He jerked his head in an attempt to fake him out. Osbert didn't fall for it, and flew his fist toward Connor's face. It connected at the the left side of his nose, which started dripping blood. Connor reacted to this like a shark would react to the scent of blood in water. Connor's fist flew and hit Osbert in the stomach.
"Stop it!" Ms. Morbel was screaming by now. She jerked them apart and stepped in between them. "What happened?"
Then, one of the louder classmates, Freddy, said quickly, "Connor kept throwing paper at Osbert, so Osbert got mad."
Ms. Morbel turned from Freddy to Connor, then to Osbert. "Connor, paper? That's childish. Osbert, the paper won't hurt you, I'm sure. Connor, head to the office. Osbert, stand outside, but wait for Connor to leave."
Connor started to protest, saying Osbert threw the first punch, but he decided against it. If Osbert stayed outside, he would eventually be called in. Connor wouldn't. He liked that idea. He trudged slowly off to the office.
The worst of David's hangover had passed, and he felt confident in their plan. He, Oliver, and Alfred were talking it over on the living room floor.
"All I'm saying," Oliver started, "is you're stealing from the president. Doesn't that sound a little too risky? All for what? A book." Oliver folded his arms and laid back against the couch.
"Dammit, Oliver. I already told you. What do you think the president goes in there for? Just to read his own private copy of To Kill a Mockingbird with a gold-plated cover? Doubt it." David eyed Oliver angrily.
Oliver grunted angrily. "What do you think he goes in there for, David?" Oliver shot him an inquisitive look.
David didn't reply.
"What about you, Alfred?" Oliver continued.
Alfred didn't reply at first, but then said, "I think I know. But you'll laugh."
"Great. I could use a good chuckle right about now." Oliver said, smiling.
Alfred sighed. "You ever heard of-"
Oliver interrupted him by feigning hysterical laughter. "I'm sorry, continue," he said when he was done.
Alfred waited a second, then continued. "You ever heard of the Roswell incident? Spaceship crashed in New Mexico?"
"Oh, yeah," David said. "I remember that. My great-great-grandfather was in the Army at the time. He said he saw something, but..." He shrugged.
"Well," Alfred continued, "maybe he keeps books like that in there. You know, records of what really happened."
The group pondered this.
"Okay, even if we attempt this, how're we going to get passed the guards? We'd need receipts and they're not going to let just anybody check out the president's books." Oliver protested.
"That's why I got these." He dug through his pocket and pulled out a roll of blank receipts. "All we need to do is to see what font they use for the receipts and print it out on here. Piece of cake."
"Hey, yeah, your mom went there earlier this week, huh?" Alfred asked. "Do you know where she keeps all her receipts?"
David wrinkled his nose. "Probably in her purse. But she does keep important receipts in a drawer of her desk. She keeps it locked, but..." He fished in his pocket. "I've got this." He held up a paper clip.
"Well, let's get started," Oliver stated as he smiled.
"Hah, that's more like it, Oliver!" David smiled his trademark smile.
They got up and walked into his mom's room.
Alfred sniffed. "Ugh, it smells like a perfume aisle in here." He plugged his nose.
David ignored this, He put the paper clip in the dresser's lock and gave it a twist. The drawer confirmed it was open with a click, to which David smiled again.
He pulled it open, and, after sorting through the drawer's contents, he found what he was looking for. "Got it. We should be able to print out a reasonable copy with this." He showed them the receipt.
Albert tried to grab it from him, but David pulled it out of his reach. "We need someone that's good with computers. Oliver?" David held out the receipt to Oliver.
Oliver stared at him, then started to smile. He grabbed the receipt from David, looked at it, and said, "Pretty easy to do. I could probably make a font with this."
"Oliver's doing the receipt, you're doing the planning, what am I gonna do?" Alfred complained.
"You can get the supplies we need." David told him reassuringly.
"Like...what?"
"I'm not entirely sure yet, but I know we'll need disguises. Not like ski masks, just maybe something to make us look like somebody else."
"You sure we should do this? What if we get caught?"
David smiled. "You've been hanging out with Oliver too much."
Distantly, "Hey!"
They all burst out in laugher, Oliver included.