Chapter 7 Small Crimes,Big Costs

Mason's got this way of talking that makes stupid ideas sound logical.

"It's not stealing," he says. "It's salvage. That stuff's just sitting there. You think those companies miss a hammer or two?"

I raise an eyebrow. "You think someone's just gonna buy random tools off two kids?"

He grins. "You'd be surprised what people will buy if you act like it's yours."

The site is only five blocks from my building-half-built apartments with plywood walls and scaffolding like ribs sticking out of the ground. At night, it looks abandoned. But Mason says he's been watching.

"No real cameras," he says. "And the night guard's lazy. Leaves at one for coffee."

I don't ask how he knows. I just nod.

This is how it starts. You tell yourself it's small. Harmless. Just survival.

And maybe it is... until it's not.

We go after midnight. Dressed in dark layers. No lights. Just nerves.

The chain on the side gate is loose-Mason slips it off like he's done this before. We move fast, stepping quiet on gravel and broken wood.

Inside the work tent, it smells like oil and damp metal. There's a bucket of tools. Some gloves. A box of unopened hardware still sealed in plastic.

"This is it," he whispers. "Grab what you can carry."

I pick up a cordless drill. Heavy, but not impossible. Mason snags a crowbar and a couple of sealed packages.

Then we hear the crunch.

Footsteps.

Close.

Mason swears under his breath. "Hide."

We duck behind a pile of lumber. My heart's pounding so hard I'm sure it's echoing off the metal beams.

The flashlight sweeps past. The guard mutters something to himself-just a guy, probably bored, probably tired.

He doesn't see us.

After five minutes that feel like years, he wanders off toward the front of the site.

We run.

Not walk. Not sneak.

We run.

We make it four blocks before we stop, gasping, laughing. Mason's got this wild look in his eye, like he's alive for the first time all week.

"That was close," he says, and chuckles like we just got off a roller coaster.

I can't laugh.

My hands won't stop shaking.

I don't feel alive. I feel wrong.

We sell the drill and two sealed packs to a guy Mason knows behind a mechanic's shop. The guy gives us $40 cash. No questions.

"Split it," Mason says.

I take my twenty and tuck it deep into my sock. It should feel good. It should feel smart.

It doesn't.

That night, Mason crashes again on the floor. He's out cold within minutes.

I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the guard.

About how close it came to being over.

One slip. One step too loud. One flashlight sweep in the wrong direction.

Everything ends.

Rule #9: The bigger the risk, the smaller the reward feels.

And when someone else is leading the way, it's not just your neck on the line.

It's your soul.