“Which has what to do with me?” But I take the bag, using my index and thumb to hold the corner. I maintain it a safe distance away from me like it’s full of leprosy.

“Now for the fun part,” he says, starting the engine again. “Nothing like a stink pickle to up the stakes.”

“Did you really just say stink pickle?”

We drive and drive. We’re leaving town, going south, heading to Highway 98, the touristy part of the county. I realize that it will take longer than the half hour he promised it would. I knew half an hour was wishful thinking. But I owe him now. I hate owing anyone anything. If I can just get through this little field trip, then we’ll be even. Then we’ll never have to speak again.

“So what did your parents think about the whole robbery thing? Were they proud of you?”

I frown. With a longer drive comes a higher price: conversation. This is exactly why I never try to make friends. Eventually they’ll want an explanation for my home life. “I live with my brother, Julio. And I didn’t tell him.”

A moment of silence. I can tell he’s back and forth about asking the next question. “Where are your parents?”

“Dead.”

“Sorry.”

“What for? You didn’t kill them.”

“Geez, you know what I mean.” I see his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “So why didn’t you tell your brother?”

I shrug. “Nothing much to tell.”

He looks at me then, all serious. I can tell he’s going to press for more information. I cut him off. “Look, Julio has enough on his plate without having to worry about me. He works hard for the both of us. And nothing happened so … Why worry him, you know?” I bite my tongue. What Julio has on his plate is none of Arden’s business. I feel a tide of heat fill my cheeks. I need to be more careful with what I say.

Another pause. “And what about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Seems like you have enough to worry about too. Is there a night you don’t have to work at the Breeze Mart? And obviously you care about your grades.” His voice is tight when he says this.

“I get one night off a week.” And I usually get called in for it. But telling him that would only add fuel to whatever fire Arden is building right now. “Some people have to work for their money, you know. Not everyone gets wads of twenties for their allowance.”

“I knew you were looking in my wallet. Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

Oooh, I’ve hit a nerve, I can tell. “You were practically shoving it in my face!”

“I was paying for my stuff!”

“You almost disemboweled your wallet on my counter!”

He closes his eyes and scratches one eyebrow furiously. “I usually don’t carry around that much cash with me.”

“So you were showing off.”

“And what if I was?”

Yep. I got nothing. Except, my mouth drops open in an unattractive way. Arden Moss just admitted he was showing off … for me? Next up, world peace.

“It’s just that you’re so hard to impress … And it felt like I kept screwing it up…” He grimaces at me. “Can we just get on with our fun-having?”

I nod. Although now we seemed to have bogged down our fun-having with issues.

The rest of our ride is in silence. We pull into the huge parking lot of Destin Commons, a high-end shopping center on Highway 98 in Destin. “This is the best spot,” he announces, parking us in front of a big name department store.

He retrieves his new knockoff purse, then gingerly relieves me of my bag of poo. With ease that can only be gotten from experience, he opens the purse and slides the turd pile in with perfect precision. Then he pulls out his still-engorged wallet and takes a five dollar bill from it. All the while I watch like a fascinated child. He tucks most of the bill into the purse, zipping the top almost shut, but leaves the corner of the bill sticking out, showing the denomination.

I swallow hard. A perfectly good five dollar bill, now smeared with crap. It hurts. It hurts bad. Julio would be cussing right now.

Without another word, he slips out of the driver’s side and onto the sidewalk, the purse tucked securely under his arm, out of sight. He places it on one of the waiting benches with the fluidity of a pickpocket, then takes a light jog back to the truck. By this time he’s grinning from ear to ear.

Shutting the door behind him, he points at a woman approaching the store who appears unaware of the purse sitting on the bench. She’s enthralled with finding something in her own purse—her wallet? Her return receipt?—so she passes by the bench without looking down. I wonder if I’ve ever passed any purses with an easy five bucks sticking out of it. I resolve to pay more attention.

“Aw, that would have been funny,” Arden says, disappointment thick in his voice. But the downer is short-lived. He leans forward, putting his forearms on the steering wheel. “Here comes our target. See that guy right there?”

“We have a target?” I shift in my seat. Having a target sounds so … conniving. “Why do we have a target again?”

The dude approaches the bench with a fast pace, eyeing the purse. Oh, this guy. He’s all macho, wearing a name-brand sporty wind suit and pristine running shoes that I’m sure have never seen a genuine sweaty mile. He’s balding slightly, and what’s left of his hair, he’s gelled into submission. He looks cocky. Too cocky to pick up a woman’s purse. So he passes it, keeping his eyes trained on the door ahead of him. I’m relieved. Arden scowls. “I was sure he’d fall for that.” He turns to me. “This guy is a complete jackass. He comes in here every Tuesday and demands a senior discount, even though he’s not technically a senior yet. The store manager bows to his almighty will—moron—and lets him treat his cashiers like total garbage. One time, a lady in front of him in line dropped a twenty dollar bill from her purse when she was getting her wallet out, and this guy picks it up and pockets it without even telling her.”