For some reason, as the big moment draws near, my nerves increase. But I know failure is impossible. I mean, I’ve stolen at least thirty cases of beer the past few weeks. Plus, Brenda is totally pissed at Huey, so there’s no way she’ll bother checking the cart.

I eat a few beef sticks and keep an eye on Brenda from inside the cooler, waiting for her to put down her novel and get busy restocking the booze and cigarettes. She finally starts at ten minutes before eleven.

Perfect.

I turn, grab a case of Budweiser cans, and step into the back room, where I’ve already created a nice hiding space deep within the trash-filled cart.

As always, I lay the case over a thick bottom layer of cardboard and paper bags and cover it on all sides, packing it in there as if it’s a fragile piece of art. After double-checking every possible angle, I push the cart out onto the main floor. The thing is so full I have to keep one hand on top of the garbage heap to prevent debris from falling out.

She stops me three feet from the entrance, telling me to wait as she fetches the small trashcan at the opposite end of the counter.

Damn.

My chest tightens and my stomach sours as she jogs toward me with a smile on her face and the trashcan held in her outstretched hand. I know I’m busted as soon as she tips the can over and rams it down hard onto the garbage heap to make some space. A loud thud echoes through the store as the metal trash can collides with the case of beer.

“What’s that?” she says, squinting into the cart.

She uses the trash can as a type of hammer, pounding on the garbage in different spots. Each time she does so, that depressing thud repeats itself.

“Zach, what the hell’s in here?”

“Garbage,” I mutter, backing up a few steps.

“And?”

I say nothing.

She sets the trash can aside and reaches into the cart, where she quickly finds the cardboard carrying handle of the Budweiser case and pulls it out. Loose paper, plastic bags, and cardboard spill onto the floor as she does so.

“Zach,” she says, gazing at the case in disbelief. “Who is this for?”

“Me,” I lie.

She lets the case fall gently back into the cart.

“How many times have you done this?”

“This is the first,” I lie. Again.

“Look at me.” I look. “I trusted you,” she says. She looks around the store. “I can’t believe this. So what am I supposed to do, call Huey and get you fired?”

Silence.

“Brenda, if you do that, then I’ll have to narc on you.”

“What?” she says. “What did you just say to me?”

“I know about the cigarettes,” I say. “And the Diet Coke … and why do you have a gun, anyway?”